Eighteen Hours
by Leafenclaw
Summary: AU to 7x12 "Brown Shag Carpet". This time, Lazarus' target isn't Jane. [Rated M for violence.]
1. Hour 00: Sunshine - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Hey peeps! Trying this again, see if it'll get the writing rolling. Nothing much different from canon in this chapter yet (it _is_ set-up, after all), but things will pick up in the next one.

Reminder of the rules (same as Chasing Storms last year):  
\- One prompt a day, from November 1st to November 30 (just to be clear, one prompt means one chapter)  
\- Minimum 2000 words to be called a chapter (last year it was 500 words, but hey, it's NaNoWriMo after all)  
\- Every chapter has to be written in one day and published before going to sleep  
\- No chapter can be planned more than 24h in advance (except for very basic time markers following the episode)  
\- Only minimum editing can be made after publication (grammar, typos, sentences order to correct the flow, etc.)

Hope you enjoy! (Hope I manage to do this, haha.)

* * *

 **Hour 0: Lisbon  
Sunshine**

"Hey."

Tork's voice and light touch on her knee startles her awake, and for a moment she frowns, disoriented. The uncomfortable leather couch on which she's dozing isn't the one she's used to, and the smells – dust and cleaning products – are all wrong. But the sight of Tork's short cropped curly hair is a familiar anchor, quickly bringing her back to reality. Jane is in the recording studio playing psychic, and she –

– _was supposed to stay awake and watch over him, damn it._

"What's up?" she asks, blinking the sleepiness away.

"Abbott sent me," answers Tork. "You can get out of here. I'll take Jane home when he's done."

"Oh no. I'm okay."

"No, forget it. You're beat. Go home."

She bites her lip. Truth is, the long sleepless nights are taking a toll on her, and she _is_ beat. And Tork is watching her, his expression halfway between compassion and amusement, the quirk at the corner of his lips making him look like a little boy eager to do a grown-up job.

"Alright," she relents.

She gets up, waves to attract Jane's attention. He looks up and smiles, nods a few times – but the yellow lighting, so far from sunlight, deeply creases the lines on his cheeks and deepens the shadows under his eyes. She can't wait for this to be over.

"I'll be waiting for you at home," she silently mouths at him.

He nods again, smiles briefly and waves, then turns back his attention to the radio and the girl talking about some nonsense ghost story. Biting her lip again, she nods at Tork, opens the door, and takes a deep breath as soon as she steps out. A part of her is still worried about leaving Jane behind – will be until this is over – but she cannot deny being glad to get out early. Those stuffy recording studios always make her feel claustrophobic.

The parking lot is empty – unsurprising at this late hour – and she shivers when a light wind slithers under her jacket. Tiredness makes her more sensitive to cold, and for a moment she wishes she chose to wear warmer clothes this morning. But soon enough she'll be in the Airstream wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, she reminds herself as she reaches her car. And tomorrow it'll still be time to remember to dress appropriately for the chilly weather.

She slams the door, starts the car, and opens the radio.

"He rose from the dead," says a man's voice, and she shivers.

 _A creepy one. Great. There's always at least one, every time._

"So I hear," says Jane. "What's your question, Lazarus?"

She smiles. The sceptical, amused note in his voice is a pleasure to hear – as long as it's there, she knows he isn't quite beaten down by the memories this whole business never fails to rouse at night. Her sleepless nights aren't only because of the worry she feels – the constant screaming and shivering and waking up covered in cold sweat plays a part too. Both him _and_ her. She spent too many years being called on Red John crime scenes not to be haunted by the same pictures tormenting him.

 _Just a little more, then this nightmare is over._

The lights of a car behind her flashes bright in the rear-view mirror, blinding her for a second. Eyes on the road, she does her best to avoid driving too fast – she's not into the habit of breaking the law but the call of Jane's sheets in the Airstream is coming strong, and she dreams of a full night of sleep followed by a lazy morning in bed with her –

– "boyfriend" to describe Jane is so _weird_ , she thinks, but there's nothing that fits better. In her world "partner" doesn't describe the relationship she has with him anymore, and "lover" reminds them both too much of Lorelei. Boyfriend it'll have to be, though it makes her feel a little like a schoolgirl drawing hearts on her notebook.

"What else do you know about the man the FBI is hunting?"

"Well, I can't tell you everything I know."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's an ongoing investigation. The case is still open."

She grins.

 _We'll never make a cop out of you, but we did manage to hammer a few things down, haven't we?_

"Why are you interested? Do you have information on the man?"

"You're the one who knows everything."

"I never said that."

"No, but you claim to be in contact with his spirit – _if_ you're telling the truth. If you're not, why would the police want your help?" says the man on the radio.

She frowns. That doesn't sound good. She hopes Abbott is listening and tracking the call – and for a moment she wonders if she should turn back. Leaving Jane alone suddenly seems like a very, very bad idea.

She stops on the side of the road, picks up her phone.

"Cho."

"Hey," she says. "You tracking down that caller?"

"Yeah, we're on it," answers Cho.

"Okay. Need me to be part of the task force?"

"No. Go home, Lisbon. We got this."

She bites her lip, but a yawn breaks her train of thought and she's forced to admit she really isn't in the right condition to help right now.

"Alright. Call me if anything comes up."

"Of course."

She hangs up, swallows her anxiety – starts the car again, just as another vehicle drives past her on the road. Is that a pick-up? The tail lights blink red twice before it turns the corner. She continues ahead.

"I spoke to someone like you once before."

"Really? Who?" asks Jane.

His voice is mild, but she knows him too well to ignore the undercurrent of stress and uneasiness in the low frequencies of his words.

"He was a complete fake. You could practically see it written on him."

 _That's him!_

She's tempted to call Cho again, but ultimately decides against it – by the time she gets there they'll have tracked the call and she'll be too late. They'll get him, she repeats to herself. They'll get him and it'll be over. _Finally_. So instead of rushing to the office, she stops herself from gnawing on her lips and focuses on the road, trying to ignore the pit of growing apprehension in her stomach.

"Is that so?" says Jane, after a short hesitation.

"Yes. He was pretending – just like you are."

"Let's take a short commercial break now!" cuts the radio host. "Lazarus, stay with us, we'll be right back on KPQC with Patrick Jane, the psychic who works with the FBI."

"No!" she groans. "Damnit. He'll never stay on the line, you idiot!"

A last turn and she gets to the road where Jane parked his trailer the night before. She doesn't get out yet, stays inside her car to listen to the show, hands clenched tight on the wheel. She has a set of keys to the Airstream, but the silver bucket is an horrible gas-guzzler, and the reception is better in her car anyway. _Nothing_ to do with the fact she tolerates more than enjoys the Airstream, she swears.

"Aaaand we're back!" says the host. "Lazarus, are you still with us?"

"Yes."

 _He is?! What kind of idiot is he? Doesn't he know about tracking systems?_

She frowns.

 _No, that's not it. He's not ignorant, he's cocky. What's going on?_

"When we left, you suggested that you dealt with another psychic who wasn't on the up-and-up. Are you a sceptic now?"

"No, I believe in spirits very much. Just not everybody who claims to be in touch with them."

"Any spirit in particular?" asks Jane.

"You tell me. Isn't that what you do?"

She bites her lip again. Cold reading on the phone might be a little difficult, even for Jane.

"You want me to guess?"

"That's right."

"Well, if I were to guess, I'd say it's someone close to you," he says, with just a touch of hesitation. "Someone – someone who died recently. Maybe in the last year?"

"Go on."

"Is it your – mother?"

Lazarus' chuckle has a sinister quality to it. She winces.

"You're a fake, Mr. Jane."

"No no no, wait. Not your mother – your _father_. I see it now. He was a strong man. He meant the world to you, yes? The only person you were ever close to."

"Have to go now. Bye."

" _Hold on – !_ Lazarus? Hello?"

"Seems the caller has gone," says the host cheerfully. "We're gonna take a minute for a station ID, then we'll be right back with 'Night Talk' on KPQC."

The temptation to turn around and rush back to the studio is stronger than ever. Something isn't right – she can feel it in her guts, in every one of what Jane used to teasingly call her _cop senses_ years ago. Whatever it is, something is _wrong_.

She stays in her car a few minute more, waiting until the show starts again – but when it becomes clear Jane isn't coming back on the air, she picks up her phone and gets out.

He answers almost immediately, calming part of the worry she feels – but far from all of it.

"Hey," she says, walking to the Airstream. "What happened to you? I was listening, you got cut off."

"Yeah, the call was a ruse. He's planning something. You need to get back to the office as soon as you can."

She's about to answer when she notices the door of the trailer – or, more accurately, the _ajar_ door – and a small shiver of dread creeps up her back.

"Did you leave the door of the Airstream open this morning?" she asks, hoping for once he _did_ forget to close it.

"No," he answer. "Maybe. W – why?"

"It's open."

She hears the sharp intake of breath he takes as if he was beside her.

"Okay, _stop_. Don't go anywhere near it. Don't do anything until someone else gets there."

And she hates causing him distress, but Abbott and the team aren't available right now. If a serial killer painted a target on their back, waiting there alone until _backup_ – probably the closest beat cop around – arrives is the worst idea she could have.

"That could take forever," she answers, hand on her gun already. "I'm gonna check it out."

"Yeah – fine, but you're not hanging up!" he says, obviously upset.

She switches her flashlight on, brings it to her ear, and approaches the Airstream in a careful crouch. Slowly she reaches to the door, then violently opens it – the noise it makes as it slams against the side of the trailer makes her jump. Rolling her eyes inwardly at herself, she climbs the stairs, gun first and flashlight close second.

"Teresa, what's going on?"

A quick sweep of the trailer, and she sighs in relief.

"There's nobody in here," she answers, putting her flashlight down. "I guess we left it open."

"Okay. Get back to the office," says Jane, still upset.

"Alright, I'll see you there."

She puts her phone back in her pocket, but keeps her hand on her gun until she reaches her car, just in case. The night is eerily silent, and despite there being no one around – as far as she can tell, anyway – there's an uneasy part of her she isn't able to shut up. One that makes her feel like there are eyes on her back.

" _You are the sunshine of my liiiife_ ," blares the radio when she turns the key in the contact, startling her so bad she can't stop a yelp from escaping her lungs.

"Goddammit! Stop being so silly!" she groans aloud.

She slams the door maybe a little too hard, but the noise this time reassures her as it echoes outside. She's alone, nobody is stalking her, and when she gets back to the office she'll do her best to convince Jane to sleep at _her_ place for a while. A house _has_ to be more secure than a trailer – and if this keeps going on, she'll even take sleeping in the office. Anything but the silver bucket parked in a deserted, isolated, _godforsaken road_ _in the middle of nowhere_.

The pebbles under her tyres make a grating sound as she drives off the small path and back to the main street. She turns slowly, making sure the road is empty, then sighs with relief when she gets to the first traffic lights.

Soon, civilisation.

Soon she'll see Jane.

She smiles to herself.

Then a flash of light in her eyes, a crash of glass as the pick-up truck slams into the side of her car, smashing pain to her temple, and she knows no more.

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Karma**


	2. Hour 01: Karma - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** I wanted to say sorry for not being able to answer reviews every day, because this challenge takes a toll on me and I need to keep my focus on the actual writing. But I read each and every one of them, they sustain me all throughout the day, and I'm so very grateful to all of you.

Special shout-out to **impatricialp** whose review put me back on the right track when I was having trouble with the beginning of this chapter. Thank you so much.

* * *

 **Hour 1: Jane  
Karma**

The ride to get back to the office is taking _too much time_.

He tries not to let himself be affected by the unusual midnight traffic, the drivers cutting them abruptly on every odd corner, the way Tork grunts and groans when they hit a red light. But everything is grating on his nerves, relentless microaggressions, and keeping his anxiety from flaring up becomes harder the longer they stay on the road.

"Hey," says Tork suddenly, as they wait for the traffic lights to turn green.

He looks at him – the agent keeps his eyes on the street ahead, but something in his posture seems uneasy, with hints of fear and guilt in the lines around his mouth.

"I, uh – I wanted to say that – I'm sorry."

"What for?" he asks.

He has an inkling of what Tork is going about, but he had enough of playing guessing games with people these days. Tork is a cop, and cops are supposed to be straightforward and _honest_ – the good ones, at least. He isn't Blake, and has a voice to speak up.

"I didn't mean to paint a target on your back."

"I know."

"You do?"

He shrugs.

"I played the game before, Tork. Knew what I was getting myself into."

"Yeah, but I – "

"It's _fine_ ," he says, hoping the man hears the warning in his voice.

Thankfully he does. He has enough guilt and self-loathing to carry around on his own – he doesn't need someone else's too.

He's the first to jump out when they finally get to the parking lot. Tork is yelling something about not running off on his own, but he doesn't hear half the words – too distracted by the lack of Lisbon's car in her usual place near the entrance. They were farther from the office than she was, she should be here by now.

 _Why isn't she?_

"Hey," says Tork. "Come on, let's go inside."

"I need to call Lisbon."

"You can call her inside. We're like sitting ducks here. Anyone with a gun could take an aim at you. Come on!"

He doesn't point out the fact that the man who calls himself Lazarus probably doesn't want to kill him – or, at least, not before having a chat face to face. Instead he takes out his phone and calls Lisbon as they jog to the glass doors to headquarters. It rings once, twice – five times before it switches to voice mail. Cold sweat breaks all over his back because Lisbon always answers her calls – and she especially makes a point never to miss _his_.

She always did, even before. Even at the CBI.

"Something's not right," he says.

"No answer?"

He shakes his head, put back his phone in his pocket. Tork is looking uneasy again.

"Let's go," he says, jogging up the stairs.

"I'm sure she's fine," says the agent when he catches up with him.

He nods, but doesn't answer – unable to apprehend the possibility of her _not_ being fine, but at the same time unable to escape it.

Wylie is sitting at his desk, head down over his computer screen, typing with a furious energy.

"Hey, where are the others?" asks Tork, waving at him.

"Huh? Oh, they're not back yet. Abbott called, I think there was an accident downtown? So there's a lot of traffic."

"Yeah, Jane and I got a taste of that. Looks like there's – "

"Any news of Lisbon?" he interrupts.

"Lisbon? No. Wasn't she supposed to be home?" asks Wylie, frowning.

He shakes his head, walks to his couch – but he's too antsy to sit down, he needs to pace, to _do something_. He picks up his cell phone again, but the call goes straight to voice mail this time. He bites his lip, staring at her smiling picture for a moment, then slips back the phone in his pocket.

 _Lisbon would never do that to me. She was never the petty type._

And that means something is _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

"Wylie, I'd like you to track Lisbon's phone," he says, coming back near the young agent.

"Uh – I don't know about that," Wylie answers, blinking owlishly. "She's gonna kill me if I do that."

"Listen. I've called two times – she's not answering. There's a serial killer out there who painted a target on my back, and that means nobody close to me is safe."

"What if she's okay though?" frowns Tork. "She's just a little late, isn't she? Maybe she didn't hear you call."

"If she is, I'll – I'll take responsibility. She won't yell at you or anything, I promise. But if she's not – "

He takes a deep breath, steadies himself.

" – if she's not, we _have_ to find her. As quickly as she can."

Neither Tork nor Wylie look especially convinced, and for once in his life he wishes he knew how to talk with his fists, just to be able to release the anxious energy brewing hot inside him. Instead he clenches his teeth and rocks on his feet once, twice, then rounds on the most malleable of the two.

"Wylie. Last time I taunted a serial killer on the air, _my wife and daughter were murdered_. Will you please, _please_ track my girlfriend's cell phone _so that the same doesn't happen to her?_ "

"O – okay," answers Wylie, eyes widened.

" _Thank_ you."

Tork is eyeing him with an alarmed expression, which means his body is probably vibrating with anxiety – and in an obvious enough way that even someone like _him_ can read it. But he doesn't care, especially if that gets him what he needs.

Wylie's diligent tracking takes less than a minute to set up – and once the computer alerts them to Lisbon's location with a loud ping, all three of them converge around the screen, trying to read the tiny information written there.

"That's a location downtown," he says, once he manages to read – and _memorise_ – the coordinates.

"She's probably caught in traffic, just like Abbott," says Tork.

"She's not answering her phone."

"Maybe she doesn't have good reception?"

" _Downtown?!_ "

Tork shrinks under his glare.

"Someone should call Abbott," says Wylie. "He's supposed to be around there, right? Maybe he can tell us what's going on."

 _This isn't good enough._

"Call Abbott if you want, but I'm – I'm going there," he decides.

" _Wait! Jane!_ "

Uncaring who follows him or not, he rushes down the stairs and right through the doors before remembering he has no vehicle to his name – Lisbon's car probably being with her phone, and his Airstream parked a few dozen miles out of town. His steps falter for a second, but Tork's car is parked just there, available in a minute to anyone with lock-picking and hot-wiring skills, and he decides he doesn't care if the man gets mad at him. Lisbon may be in danger, he has no other means of transportation, and _he has to get there_.

"Jane!"

He grins joylessly, unlocks the door easily and sits behind the wheel.

 _The man himself. Better be quick._

" _Stop!_ I'll come with you, just – don't destroy my car, damn you!" yells Tork.

"I'm not destroying it," he yells back, already busy with the wires under the dashboard. "Just borrowing it for a while."

"Abbott said you shouldn't stay alone!"

He rolls his eyes, slams on the accelerator and rushes out of the parking lot.

Barely two minutes on the road and his phone buzzes loudly. Heart beating faster, he picks it up with trembling fingers, only to be sorely disappointed when Cho's picture stares back at him instead of Lisbon's.

"Yeah?" he says shortly.

"Wylie called," says Cho. "Said you went rogue again."

"Lisbon isn't answering her phone."

"He said. Was about to call you anyway."

A new pang of worry makes his frantic heart miss a beat, and suddenly all the air inside the vehicle seems to disappear.

"What's going on?" he asks, trying to control himself – and probably failing.

"I need you to go back to the office. Now."

Cho's voice sounds _harried_ , as stressed as he was when they caught that witchcraft case six years ago. He half-closes his eyes, fist clenched on the receiver, when he hears a siren in the call's background.

"Is she dead?" he whispers, barely audible even to himself. "Is she – "

"Jane, there's a serial killer after you. You need to get back to a place where we can protect you."

"Did he kill Lisbon?" he repeats, louder this time.

"Kill? No. I mean – we don't know. Jane, _go back to the office_."

"I'm _not_ going back to the office! What do you mean, _you don't know?_ "

More background noise makes Cho's answer indistinct – but one more turn and he can see the gyrating lights of an ambulance painting the streets black and red, the crowd closing ranks around what looks like a crime scene. He stops in the middle of the street, uncaring what happens to Tork's car, and closes his phone without a second thought – the only thing that matters now is whether or not he'll find Lisbon once he pushes those bystanders aside, and _in which condition_.

Half-form words pass him by as he forcefully makes his way through the crowd, "injured" and "accident" and "complete wreck" and "body" and nothing that makes sense, nothing that he _wants_ to make sense of. The acrid smells of spilled gas and morbid curiosity irritate his nostrils and, as the people part before him, the wind blowing smoke into his eyes makes them water. He painfully tries to keep the tight knot of suffocating panic inside him from unravelling, but the sight of Lisbon's car wrecked a few feet ahead is almost too much to bear.

" _Teresa!_ "

Already aware that the chances of her answering are slim to none but unable to keep his despair quiet, he quickly slips under the yellow tape and runs to the ambulance waiting on the other side of the scene, escaping the well-meaning hands trying to stop him. He reaches the stretcher, but the woman laying there isn't Lisbon – she has blonde hair matted in blood, dark eyes in a pale face, and for a moment he finds himself unable to breathe so strong is the relief seizing him.

Then rough arms pull him back, garbled, inarticulate, _angry_ voices surrounding him, and he struggles as hard as he can against them until Abbott's raises itself over all others in a powerful boom.

" _Leave that man alone!_ "

The men holding him back finally release him – leaving Cho to corral him to a quiet area near the patrol cars.

"You're an idiot," he says.

"Where is Lisbon?"

"We don't know yet."

"But that's her car! How can you not know?"

"She wasn't there when we arrived."

"Then she must have wandered out, she must be injured! We must organise a – a search, or – "

"Jane. Look at me."

Cho seizes his arms just below the shoulders, grounding him, using his own face three inches from his to anchor him to reality, at least until he regains enough control of himself to start breathing normally again. Then he nods shortly, and Cho takes a step back.

"Seems like someone deliberately crashed Lisbon's car," he says, pointing to the wrecked vehicle. "There wasn't any blood inside, so chances are she's okay. Still alive."

"Search party?"

He doesn't trust himself to utter more. His throat is nearly shut completely tight.

"Already there with the dogs. Inconclusive so far. But we found a traffic camera nearby, so we'll send the videos to the office. Chances are we'll have a better idea what happened then."

"The injured woman?"

"Crashed into Lisbon's car before we got there."

"You sure she didn't cause the accident?"

"Yes."

He opens his mouth to ask why, but Cho's carefully contained expression is an answer in itself – and a new wave of fear and anguish threatens to swallow him alive.

"You think it's him," he says. "Lazarus."

"It's possible he may have taken her," answers Abbott, walking to them. "Jane, we need to get you back to the office right now. You're still a possible target."

"But – but _why?_ Why take Lisbon, why not me?"

They don't have an answer – and as much as he tries to find one, his thoughts are so jumbled and confused he comes up empty handed. Empty handed, useless, and overall _guilty_. Because he never believed in fate, never believed in personal history doomed to repeat itself –

– but he _knew_ what would be the outcome when he used himself as bait. He _knew_ , and _she_ knew, and she tried to stop him but he didn't want to, didn't _listen_ , again and again and again because _he never learns, never_ –

"Hey," says Cho, patting his shoulder. "We're gonna find her."

"Yeah," he whispers, wiping his cheeks.

Any other outcome is inconceivable.

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Song**


	3. Hour 02: Song - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Alright! Hope you're ready for a heavy helping of distressed!Jane, because right now Lisbon is unconscious and dawn is still a few chapters away. When she wakes up you'll get to see her point of view, but right now... whump abounds I guess, haha. Sorry about that!

On that note... Shout-out to **FiascoWay** whose reviews made me laugh and think respectively. You always offer thought-provoking reflections, little things I get to ponder on for days on end sometimes, and I'm so grateful for that. Thank you for helping me shape my inner TM world this past year. And I promise, no damsel-in-distress!Lisbon as far as I can help it. She's too much of a fighter to stay helpless for long. :-)

* * *

 **Hour 2: Jane**

 **Song**

The FBI agents trickle in the bullpen like a line of ants crawling toward a dead body.

From his vantage point near the bay window, he can see their reflections moving about awkwardly, staring curious and pitying from a distance – none of them brave enough to talk to him directly. He's glad – the looks they send his way are enough to churn his stomach. He has no need – nor _desire_ – for their words.

For the most part, however, he avoids them as they avoid him, focussing on the distant lights in the parking lot while his brain is busy trying to focus on _anything_ but the possibility of Lisbon's death. His fingers follow relentlessly the break lines on his cup – _the cup she put back together for him_ – hoping to divine answers to the puzzle of her kidnapping.

 _At least we know for sure it's a kidnapping now._

He only got a glimpse at the video feed earlier – too distressed to pay much attention to anything else except try and confirm the woman being hauled on the shoulders of the pick-up driver was indeed Lisbon. The sight of her limp body being taken away nearly caused him to lose the little food he ate before the radio show. But he knows he'll need to see that video again – probably many times, until he manages to pick up something from their suspect. Anything. _Anything_ to give them a lead so they can find her alive.

His mind carefully skirts away from the fact they might not find her in time.

Or at all.

Abbott climbs on the podium, clears his voice. The few hushed conversations stop, every agent's attention converging on him.

 _Finally._

"Thank you for coming in," he says. "An hour and a half ago, Agent Lisbon was attacked by a man who we believe is responsible for 10 murders in the past year."

The security video footage, several times enlarged, runs behind him. Wylie stops it on the one section where Lazarus is partially visible. It shows a young man with dark hair, wearing a baseball cap and cheap clothes – a generic description that must fit at least a thousand people in this city alone.

" _This_ man," adds Abbott, pointing to the picture. "As you can see in the camera footage, she has been abducted by this man and is still being held. So as of right now, _no one_ goes home. _No one_ takes a nap or a coffee break until Agent Lisbon is returned and this man is arrested. Agent Cho will have your assignments."

The whispering is going strong as Abbott lets Cho take over and walk to the back of the room. He turns back to the window, worrying his lip – waiting, because he isn't yet sure how they will let him help, or if they plan to let him do anything at all. Abbott is probably debating if he should asks help from someone he sees as the relative of _a victim_ , of if he should rather take a risk and shelve his best – but _unstable_ – asset.

It doesn't really matter though – he already has an idea of what he needs to do.

"Jane."

Abbott's voice startles him out of his thoughts – it speaks to how out of it he is that he didn't see his reflection coming closer on the glass panel. But one look back, and he already knows what the man is going to say. He turns back to the window, gaze losing itself on the shadows and vague shapes in the darkness – he doesn't want to hear it.

"She warned me, I didn't listen, and I _am_ sorry."

"Don't waste your breath," he says stiffly. "You never went through this before. _I_ knew the game – _I'm_ the one to blame."

"It's not your fault – it's _his_. Jane, listen to me – he could have killed her, but he _took_ her," Abbott adds. "And that means we can hope he's keeping her alive. Lisbon is one of the best cops I know. She's far from defenceless – she _aced_ the training and exams last year, enough to bypass Quantico."

He scoffs to hide the fear eating him, the fear that she will act reckless and get herself killed _because_ of that training.

"But more than that, Jane – she has _wits_. How many years have you worked together?"

"Ten years at the CBI," he answers roughly.

"And one more here."

He nods, still unwilling to turn around and look Abbott in the eye.

"You coached her many times – I've seen you two work seamlessly in a way _no one else can_."

"Well _as you can see_ , we're not _together_ right now."

"Yes. But she's clever and adaptive, you know that – she learned from you and I have no doubt that she _will_ find a way to exploit any situation she finds herself into."

" _She shouldn't have had to!_ "

He stops himself, bites on his knuckles hard. The bullpen is tense and silent, and he has no doubt that all eyes are on him now. One deep breath, and he turns to face them all. Most of them baulk and go back to their work. Abbott stays facing him, a faint glimmer of surprise on his otherwise grave face.

"She _shouldn't_ have been taken," he says, quietly but intently. " _I_ was on TV. _I_ was on the news. My face was plastered in every newspapers all week – _mine_ , not hers!"

Abbott looks apologetic again, and he presses the back of his hands hard against his eyes, both to avoid looking at him and to keep his emotions in check.

"You know us, Abbott," he rasps – because he may be able to keep the tears from his cheeks, but keeping them from his voice as well is asking too much. "You know we don't do public demonstrations of affection. And we would have noticed if someone was following us around. That man had no way of knowing we – we have a relationship, so _why_ was she abducted?"

"I have no idea, Jane. I'm sorry. But we'll find out. We'll find _her_."

He takes a deep breath, mind whirling with information he isn't sure how to put together.

 _Yet._

"Red John was a sadist," he starts slowly, trying to keep his thoughts in check. "He – he killed _violently_ , he – but _Lazarus_ isn't like that. Lazarus kills for a purpose, he takes things from his victims. Blood. Finger nails. He doesn't enjoy the kill itself, it's – he's _harvesting_ them. So it makes no sense that he would take my – my girlfriend to _punish_ me. If he had something to punish me for, he would take _me_."

"So – you're saying he took her for a specific reason, not to get back at you," says Abbott, frowning.

He nods, biting on his knuckles again.

"What does he want with her?"

"I – "

 _I don't know._

He scrunches his eyes hard, bites harder, trying to will the answer into existence – but nothing. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing at all, and the helplessness is overwhelming.

Blood on his tongue shocks him back to reality, and he stares for a moment at the dark red drops blooming on his skin like a macabre flower.

"Okay," says Abbott, alarmed. " _Okay_. One step at a time. It's already progress, if we can find what he wants with her, we'll have a better idea how to get her back. Come on, let's get that checked downstairs, I don't want you bleeding all over the office."

"Meh, just a nick. It'll stop bleeding on its own."

"It's a _human bite_. You need it disinfected."

 _Right. Mild germs phobia. Plus, he wants me out of the bullpen for a while. Thinks I'm a distraction._

One look around, and he realises Abbott might be on to something. Some of the agents working at the usually empty desks – some of those who answered the call but don't work with him on a daily basis – are gawking openly instead of doing their work. He glares at them, pushing down on the anger, the sudden urge to strike them.

" _Fine_. I'll go on my own," he says, grabbing a tissue from a random desk nearby.

The man hesitates, eyeing him speculatively. He barely just stops himself from growling.

"You don't have to _babysit me!_ Lisbon needs us to find her, and I – I can't do police work. So just – just _go_. Do what you do. I'll be right back."

"Alright. You know where to find medical supplies?"

"Downstairs."

Abbott glares.

" _Do not disappear on me_. I don't have spare agents to send running after you."

"I won't."

He nods stiffly. Besides, they are his better chance of finding Lisbon – leaving would be beyond stupid.

 _For now, at least._

"And Jane?"

"Yeah?"

"Take a walk."

 _Clear your head. No more scenes in the middle of the bullpen, or you're out. Got it._

He doesn't bother chasing plasters or disinfectants, downstairs or anywhere else – the small bite mark on his finger is barely visible and stopped bleeding long ago. Instead he walks to the kitchen and refills his teacup, keeping out of sight and taking solace in the small ritual. Milk first. Then tea bag. Then boiling water – truly boiling. Then making the tea bag dance – once, twice, thrice. A tentative fourth time. Then a sip.

No hug in a cup.

No comfort.

 _No Lisbon._

He closes his eyes, rubs his face. A very persistent ear worm keeps trying to remind him of the song she sang to him when he was upset one night, not too long ago.

How did it go again?

"Wo-oh, we're half way there," he tries to hums before his voice breaks again.

If tea won't help, maybe action will.

"Wylie," he says, walking to his desk. "Sorry to interrupt – I need you to set me up in the conference room."

"Sure. What do you need?"

"A very large screen and that video footage."

It takes a few minutes – the screen is already there, and for a second he wonders why Wylie looks so sad as he plugs a computer and sets up the material. It probably has something to do with Vega, but he doesn't have time for this right now – Vega, as brutal as it is, will never come back.

Lisbon might – Lisbon _has_ to.

 _She will._

"Uhm, okay so – I set it on a loop, is that okay? You just need to click here to pause it, and that's for magnifying."

"Thanks," he says, clasping briefly Wylie's shoulder.

"My pleasure," he smiles.

Alone at last, he closes the door, shuts the lights, pulls down the shutters until it's as dark as it can be, then he starts the loop and, sitting on a hard chair nearby, forces himself to watch.

The crash is horrible.

The first time, he isn't able to keep his eyes open. Just knowing the body being tossed around in that video is _his Lisbon_ causes him to dry heave for a minute. He thought he knew the meaning of _terror_ when he found her with blood all over her face, when he called and called and _called_ after their fight but got Red John on the phone instead – but he realises now how mistaken he was. Back then, the fear he felt was muted in intensity because of how numb he was, and only soaked with hopes and yearnings.

But now he _feels_ again – has been since their lips met a year ago. Now he _knows_ what it is to hold her against him in both happy and sad times – has the memories of how it feels to love her, and have her love him back.

And that knowledge makes his fear excruciating.

After a while, however, he forces himself to push down the pain and horror, and to _see_.

The pick-up truck crashes the front of her car on the passenger side. She doesn't move from her seat. Lazarus gets out, walks around the crashed vehicle. The camera never shows his face.

 _Deliberate?_

Lazarus opens the door. Lisbon's body flops aside – he struggles with her safety belt, then picks her up on his shoulder. He leaves the door open, walks back to his pick-up. Disappears for a few minutes, presumably to put Lisbon in the passenger seat. Reappears on the other side, climbs in the driver's seat, shuts the door.

Drives away with Lisbon.

He bites his lip, swallows the lump in his throat, blinks the tears away, and waits for the loop to start again.

And again.

And again.

And he finds nothing helpful, nothing of importance, nothing the FBI didn't already see or notice or take note of – but this _cannot_ be all there is, he _has_ to have missed something, on the video or maybe at the crime scene.

He has to.

He has to, otherwise he has no lead to go on, no way to find her.

So he leans back and watches the loop again, while his forgotten tea turns lukewarm, then cold.

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Cigarette**


	4. Hour 03: Cigarette - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Uuuurgh. So this one was painful to write, haha. Hopefully it's not too awkward to read, I was kind of brain dead by the end of it. Thanks to all of you who read and review, you make my day brighter.

* * *

 **Hour 3: Jane  
Cigarette**

Sitting alone in that dark room, he's going stir-crazy.

Nothing else matter but the footage on a loop before his eyes. Crash. Take Lisbon. Drive away. Crash. Take Lisbon. Drive away. Crash again. He somehow accidentally found a way to induce a slow motion mode – and then tried in quick motion too. He stopped the video a few times, at different moments, then started it again.

He got nothing – nothing _concrete_ , anyway.

Lazarus' face is never completely visible on camera. The _plates_ are visible, but they found the pick-up already – with one of Lisbon's hair on the passenger seat.

A bust, of course. Stolen vehicle. Nothing to get out of it.

He could perhaps, _perhaps_ , _maybe_ pick Lazarus out in a crowd, but he's not even sure of that. The footage's quality is too bad, between the grainy night lighting and the distance from which it was taken – the idiosyncrasy of his body language is hard to see, hard to interpret. Too hard to be sure of anything, and he _hates_ the feeling of being in a funk, especially at a time like this.

There's _something_ though.

The problem is he doesn't know _what_.

It's in the way Lazarus walks – in the way he picks up Lisbon, every gesture self-assured, careful, and economical. There's _something_ that sends jolts of recognition to this brain, something that wants to emerge – but just like a faulty light bulb, he's unable to follow the thought in the maze of his thought process.

So he watches. And watches. And watches again. And tries to _see_. Tries to _remember_.

And _fails_.

Again and again and again, probably because at the time the memory wasn't considered important enough to be stored into his memory palace, and _curse_ the fact his most important asset is failing him in a time like this.

 _It's maddening._

A loud knock at the door startles him. The forgotten teacup in his hand flies in the air and he jumps after it, barely catching it before it hits the floor. Someone turns on the lights and he blinks blearily in the door's direction.

"Hey," says Cho. "What are you doing on the floor?"

Breathing heavily, he cradles the cup against his chest instead of giving an answer. His friend stares at him for a second, then offers a hand without saying a word. He takes it gratefully.

"You got tea all over you."

He shrugs. Cho's lips quirk up slightly.

"Abbott's looking for you – nearly had an aneurysm until Wylie told him you were here."

"Ah, yeah – forgot to tell him. Do you have something? A lead?"

"Don't know, he's waiting for us. You?" he asks, pointing to the screen.

"Left leg maybe just a tad shorter than his right leg, or maybe injured, I don't know. There might be a slight unbalanced stance when he walks. Other than that, I've got nothing. Just – I don't know. Just a hunch. Can't put my finger on it, it's – "

He shakes his head, frustrated.

"Alright. Let's go see Abbott."

Cho briefly clasps his shoulder before they leave. The gesture is very similar to the manner in which he thanked Wylie earlier – but Cho's touch offers comfort, not gratefulness.

 _Interesting how many different meanings a single gesture can hold._

They walk side by side to the bullpen, where Abbott is waiting for them, with arms crossed and an impressive glare.

"You got something?" he asks, vibrating with nervous energy.

"No," answers Abbott. "But I get _nervous_ when I don't know where you are."

He smiles painfully, averts his eyes. Lisbon used to say the same thing. Still does, sometimes – more affectionately now than she used to.

"You're covered in tea," Abbott adds, glancing up and down.

"Told you," says Cho behind him.

And he frowns, because this suddenly reminds him of _something_ again, he just isn't quite sure _what_ – a strange sensation of _déjà vu_ nagging him, the same way Lisbon's song is still turning around in his mind. Shaking his head slightly, he files the thought for later, and shrugs at Abbott again.

"You didn't take care of your finger either. What were you doing all this time?"

"Watching the camera security footage. See if I could pick something."

"On a loop. In the dark," deadpans Cho.

"I – see," says Abbott, raising his eyebrows. "So. Did you? Find a lead?"

"No. Just a hunch. There's something there, I just – I can't catch it."

"Well, maybe it's time to change your angle. Why don't you listen to the recording of the call he made tonight? Maybe you could get something from that."

He takes a deep breath, then nods. Clearly, he won't get anything more from the footage right now – and though he has no desire to hear Lazarus' voice again, it cannot possibly be worse than watching Lisbon's car being wrecked time and time again.

"So," says Wylie, popping beside him with headphones. "I set it up so you can lie down on your couch, is that okay? Just – sit down, put these on your ears."

"Like this?"

"Yeah, exactly. Now make yourself comfortable and send me a signal when you're ready."

"What signal?"

"Oh, uh – a thumbs up will do."

Wylie's grin and over-eager attitude makes him smile briefly. Lying down, he crosses his arms on his chest and closes his eyes – opens them again quickly, sends the required thumbs up.

" _– call here from Lazarus. Hmm. Lazarus, welcome to the show._ "  
" _Lazarus. Interesting name._ "  
" _He rose from the dead._ "  
" _So I hear. What's your question, Lazarus?_ "

He shivers with disgust as he listens to the slow, careful, _meticulous_ voice of the man who abducted Lisbon.

But he can do this.

He _must_ do this.

So he closes his eyes and listens intently – to the inflexions more than the words, until he gets to the end of the recording.

"Again?" asks Wylie as if from far away, his voice muffled by the headphones.

He nods. The recording starts again.

This time he listens to the words.

" _Any spirit in particular?_ "  
" _You tell me. Isn't that what you do?_ "  
" _You want me to guess?_ "  
" _That's right_."  
" _Well, if I were to guess, I'd say –_ "

He winces when Lazarus laughs. Not because of how cruel it sounds – because it _doesn't_. No, what makes him so uneasy is the complete lack of emotion – how cold and mechanical he sounds, as if the man was going through the motions by habit more than purpose.

And that _hurts_.

Because it means Lazarus didn't care about whom he was abducting. He cared about himself, about his goal, but he didn't care about _her_. And he cannot comprehend how someone – _anyone!_ – could possibly be indifferent to _Lisbon_.

He rubs his eyes, trying to shut up his mind, focus on the recording instead of his increasingly depressive and desperate thoughts.

"Everything okay?"

" – yeah, I'm fine."

"Sorry," mutters Wylie.

 _Clever enough to know when he's been lied to, and humble enough to apologise when he realises he made a mistake. He's a better man than I'll ever be._

Lazarus' laughter punctuates his thoughts again, and he sits up, throws the headphones away.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. _No_. Just – "

He waves his hand, rubs his eyes.

"That's okay," says Wylie. "You have the right to take a break. I mean – Abbott said no breaks, but I don't think it applies to you, right?"

" _No_. No break. I'll be fine, just give me a minute."

He shouldn't _need_ a break. But thinking is so hard right now, when panic and worry and despair threaten to overwhelm him every time he loses focus. And keeping himself in check in increasingly difficult, unable as he is to escape the thought of what could be done to Lisbon while he sits idle on his couch.

This is why he had the attic, back at the CBI. Because here, right in the middle of the bullpen – right in the middle of _everything_ – there's no way to escape reality. Even just for a second. Even just to put a distance between _my girlfriend has been kidnapped by a serial killer_ and _I need to solve this case before we have another victim_.

"Alright. Let's try this again," he mutters to himself, putting back the headphones and nodding at Wylie.

" _I spoke to someone like you once before_."  
" _Really? Who?_ "  
" _He was a complete fake. You could practically see it written on him_."  
" _Is that so?_ "  
" _Yes. He was pretending – just like you are_."

Deep breath in.

 _He has an interest in the occult – that much we know. He went after Gabriel Osbourne, a self-professed psychic. He tortured and killed him, wrote the word "Fake" on his arm – as if he was personally offended by the fact that he lied about his powers. Why?_

Deep breath out.

" _No, I believe in spirits very much. Just not everybody who claims to be in touch with them_."

The smell of cigarette smoke wafting through the air suddenly breaks his focus. He frowns, opens his eyes – Tork comes back to his desk, scratching his neck, reeking of cheap tobacco and _fresh air_. For a moment he doesn't react – doesn't _know_ how to react – but then _anger_ washes over him like a tidal wave.

He slowly removes the headphones, puts them beside him, then gets up and walks to Tork's desk.

"You took a break," he says, staring hard.

"Huh?"

Tork looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights, frightened and startled, and _he has never cared less_ about scaring someone away.

" _You took a break_ ," he repeats, stressing each syllable.

"No! I mean – the computer was running a program, the standard response is ten minutes – "

"Abbott said _no breaks!_ And _you_ decide the rules don't apply to you, so you go outside to _smoke?_ "

" _Hey!_ I just went outside to smoke instead of twiddling my thumbs for ten minutes over a damn program that _hasn't even finished its task yet_ , for God's sake!"

He slams his fist against Tork's desk so hard, several pens jump out of the pencil holder and roll off to the side.

" _Lisbon could be tortured right now! Right this second. Do you even care? You don't get to smoke until she's back, do you understand? You don't get to –_ "

Cho suddenly interposes himself between them, facing him, pushing him back toward the kitchen.

"That's _enough_ , Jane! Come on, let's get you out of here."

" _I'm not getting out!_ I want to find Lisbon – I'm _working_ to find her, unlike _him!_ "

"You're not working right now, you're having a breakdown. Now, _come on_."

Cho is right – he's self-aware enough to know it, to recognises the signs, and it's the only reason he lets himself be corralled back to the conference room. That, and because it's _Cho_ doing it – the only man who's been beside him as long as Lisbon has, who _keeps_ standing beside him every time he needs it.

"I'm _okay_ ," he says once the door is closed, taking a deep breath – trying to contain himself again.

"Don't give me that crap. I know you, Jane. You're _not_ okay."

"Yeah, well – I'll be fine, as long as _that_ – "

" _Stop_. This is not about Tork and _you know that_."

Cho is still holding him. He frees his arm with a jerky pull and turns away to pace, both hands pulling on his hair.

"I'm going to kill him, you know," he says, trying to keep his voice as calm as he can – and failing miserably. "I won't let him get away with it. He has _nothing_ on Red John – letting himself get caught on camera was _sloppy_. I can outwit him, _and I will_ , and then I will gut him like a fish."

When he turns to face Cho, the man is standing against the door, arms crossed and eyeing him with a placid expression.

"Not if I get there first."

He stops pacing, startled out of anger, and quickly assess Cho's body language. But he quickly comes to the conclusion there was no lie in his words. So he nods – and Cho nods back, for once both of them united in their desire for a man to meet his violent end.

Then the door opens behind them and Abbott peeks in.

"I've been hearing about a fight," he says, getting in. "What is going on?"

"Jane had a breakdown."

"I'm okay now."

Abbott looks from one to the other – but both of them stand facing him, calm and expressionless, and he shakes his head.

"Jane, why don't you go home and change? You have tea stains all over your clothes and I bet a shower would do you some good. Cho, go with him – he still could be a target."

"I'm _not_ leaving, I need to _find_ her, _I need to help_ – "

" _Jane_ ," interrupts Cho.

He stops, bites his lip. His friend – his _partner_ – is frowning at him, which would amuse him if the situation wasn't so dire. But he understand the message loud and clear.

 _Don't make waves – not now. Not yet._

"Oh, _fine_ ," he says rolling his eyes. "Let's go get me a change of clothes and a bowl of fresh air."

"Good," says Abbott, looking and sounding suspicious. "Stay available," he adds, raising his cell phone. "Just in case."

He rolls his eyes again.

As if either of them would do otherwise.

The car ride to reach the Airstream is silent for the most part. He lets Cho drive gladly, staring ahead in the passenger seat, trying to jolt his faulty memory again – without success. Cho turns to him as they get closer to the area where he parked his trailer, asks directions.

"Just ahead," he answers. "Turn right on the little path there."

"Stay in the car until I make sure the road is clear."

He shrugs.

"I'm not his target."

"You don't know that."

"Well, I'm still here, aren't I? And Lisbon was – Lisbon _isn't_."

"Stay in the car, Jane."

 _Whatever._

Cho gets out quickly, gun and flashlight raised as he sweeps the small road. He briefly wonders if Lisbon did the same, then banishes the thought – it doesn't matter if she did or not. Lazarus didn't get her _here_.

"Clear," calls Cho.

He rolls his eyes and gets out, walks to the door and unlocks it quickly. The place looks unusually cold and empty, just as it did when he used to spend his nights alone here, dreaming of a future he wasn't sure would ever happen.

 _But it did. And now –_

He swallows, throat clicking painfully, and picks up a clean shirt from the cupboard in the back. Cho sits on the couch awkwardly, hand on his gun, and raise an eyebrow at him when he stays unmoving, staring at the pair of socks Lisbon gave him when he came back from Venezuela.

"I'll be right back," he mutters.

Taking his shower is quick work. Changing clothes, even quicker. He gets out, still rubbing the water out of his hair, feeling marginally better – until he notices the blanket Cho folded and put on the table. Then he stops, and stares.

There's _something_ about that blanket.

Something that jogs his memory better than a thousand loops of footage.

"What is this?" he asks, frozen on the spot.

"What?"

"The blanket. Why did you put it there?"

Cho blinks, taken aback by the urgency in his voice.

"I thought you might want to keep it close for when we find Lisbon," he answers.

"Where does it come from?"

Breaking his inertia, he rubs a thumb against the coarsely knitted yarn, runs his fingers through the soft beige fringe.

"It was on the backrest," answers Cho, frowning. "Wasn't that the blanket you brought with you when you were sick?"

"Yes," he whispers, mesmerised by the ribbed pattern of the fabric. "It was, wasn't it?"

There's a determined, joyless, _fierce_ grin stretching his cheeks against his will.

"We need to get back to the office," he says, picking up the blanket and folding it under his arm.

"Right now? Why?"

"I think I found us a lead."

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Breathing**


	5. Hour 04: Breathing - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Couldn't resist adding a little comic relief to this chapter. Hope the parody aspects don't offend, they're really just meant to offer a bit of respite from the ongoing tension (not that the tension is going anywhere...).

As for Cho, for those who may be worried about him being out of character – words are words, and Cho at this point is still reeling from Vega's death. I think Lisbon's abduction would be especially hard on him, but there's no saying that faced with the opportunity he'd actually go through with it.

And lastly – sorry for the confusion, Lazarus wasn't in the Airstream. Drawback of writing so quickly, some of my sentences may not always be clear. You'll see what I'm getting at in this one. :-)

* * *

 **Hour 4: Jane  
Breathing**

"Run upstairs. Go tell Abbott," says Cho, stopping in front of the entrance. "I'll park the car and meet you upstairs."

He nods gratefully, then flies more than he climbs up the stairs. Tork gives him a wide berth when they meet in the hallway but he keeps running, uncaring that he looks like a madman – he _feels_ like one anyway, and a touch of madness may be just what they need to solve this case and find Lisbon before anything happens to her.

But _Abbott_ isn't his end goal.

"Wylie!" he says, out of breath and sweating already. "Wylie, do we still have access to digital evidence from a few months back?"

"Uuuuuh – I think so? I mean, it depends on which kind of evidence, but – "

"Security camera footage. A sequence that, uh – actually I don't know if they'll use it in court, but they might."

He wipes his forehead on his sleeve. Wylie scratches his nape, looks up to him with guileless eyes, then glances away. Abbott is coming their way, and he does _not_ look happy.

"If I don't have it in the registry here, they probably hold copies in storage downstairs. What do you need?"

"All the footage for the jewel heist case – the one from last August, remember?"

"Jane, _what_ are you doing here?" asks Abbott, reaching them.

"Just checking something," he answers, waving a hand in his direction. "So, is it possible?"

"Uh – " starts Wylie, suddenly looking embarrassed.

"That's _enough_ ," interrupts Abbott dryly. "Wylie, didn't Cho give you a specific task about an hour ago?"

"Uhm, yes? But – "

"Is it done?"

"Not yet, but – "

"Then you need to concentrate on that," says Abbott, frowning. "Jane, you're coming to my office. _Now_."

Wylie looks up with an apologetic expression, and he hopes his own conveys well enough how _important_ this is. Enough to disobey and get him the footage he needs, so that once he convinces Abbott – _who is already halfway to his office, crap_ – they don't lose even more time.

"Listen," he says as they reach the door. " _Abbott_. I think – "

"No, _you_ listen, Jane," interrupts Abbott. "I've tried being patient with you, because I know you're under a lot of stress right now. But Lisbon isn't _just_ your girlfriend – she's one of my agents, and she is _missing_. And while we could definitely use your help to find her, your attitude right now makes me think I should keep you the hell away from this case."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he says, taken aback. "You can't keep me away!"

Abbott closes the door, shutting out the noises of the bullpen, and points at the chair again. He rolls his eyes.

"We don't have time for this! I need to – "

"What you need to do is to _calm_ _down and listen_."

He pulls on his hair in frustration – Abbott seems determined to interrupt him to say his piece, and _they don't have time for that_. But there may be no way around this little fight for dominance.

 _Pissing contest, Lisbon would call it._

" _Fine_ , just – go on," he says, waving his hand and sitting on the arm rest of the nearest sofa.

"I'm gonna give you a choice," Abbott says, crossing his arms on his chest. "Either you keep to the conference room and come to me if you need something, or I send you home. I really don't want to do this, Jane, but I will if you force my hand – I need to know that I can count on you to remain focussed."

"That's unfair. I _am_ focussed."

"Really? I don't think so. You self-injure in the middle of the bullpen, you cause multiple scenes, you attack a co-worker, and now you're distracting my best agents from their work. I don't want to send you back home, but if you can't remain in control of yourself – well. There's a reason we don't allow relatives of victims an in on the investigation."

He gets up, anger brewing inside himself again – but mindful of what Abbott just said, he does his best to conceal it.

"I am _not_ trying to distract Wylie. _I have a lead_ ," he says, licking his dry lips. "Maybe. It's more of a hunch. But I need to check something before being sure. And for _that_ , I need Wylie's expertise."

Abbott blinks.

"Oh."

" _Yeah_."

"Well, why didn't you say so?"

He rolls his eyes.

"Can we _please_ stop losing any more time here? I need to get back to it _now_."

Abbott nods, looking a little dazed.

" _Thank you_ ," he growls, before rushing out of the office and back to the bullpen.

 _None of us is in the right state of mind right now_ – _but his point still stands. Best way to find Lisbon is to keep my head clear and concentrate. Stay in the game, one step ahead at all times.  
_

"Wylie," he says, more quietly this time. "Do you got what I need?"

"Uhm – what about Abbott?" he whispers.

"It's okay, he gave permission."

Wylie doesn't look like he believes him, but thankfully doesn't argue.

 _Good lad._

"So, uh – I checked in the database? But it's court evidence now, so we'd have to send in a request to the DoJ. We'll probably get it, but it'll take time. Too much time."

Wylie is blushing now, averting his gaze, and he narrows his eyes.

"But you have another solution," he says. "What is it?"

The young man bites his lip, checks around the bullpen if anyone is listening – luckily, everyone around is busy, though he isn't quite sure yet why it's _lucky_. He sits on his heels, arms resting on Wylie's desk, and looks him square in the eye.

"What is it?" he repeats.

"Well – " says Wylie, with a hint of shame and anxiousness in the tension of his shoulders. "There's this, uh – this website. It's a fansite, really. It's, uh – well, I'd better show you. But not here."

"Where?"

Wylie looks around once more, chews on his lip for a second. Cho, back at his desk, is glancing at them every now and then. He grins and waves. Cho looks briefly amused, then goes back to his work.

"Conference room," Wylie whispers.

"Done. Let's go."

Thankfully the room is still empty and set up as it was when he left earlier, the large screen uncovered, all ready to use. Wylie carefully closes the door and places a laptop on the table, then glances his way. Embarrassment is still obvious in his pinking cheeks and the way he hunches his shoulders. He frowns.

"So, what's up?" he asks, for once unable to guess on his own.

 _Wylie isn't the type to spend time on illegal websites, is he?_

"Uuuh. You have to know – I never intended for you to find out."

His frown deepens.

"What are you on about?"

Wylie winces.

"Better I show you."

A few clicks later, he has to rub his eyes twice to make sure he isn't hallucinating the pictures projected on the screen.

"What the – " he says, interrupting himself. "Is that _me?_ "

"Yeaaaah," says Wylie, slightly cringing. "Sorry about that."

Dozens of videos with lurid titles – _The Blonde Devil Strikes Again!_ and _Shenanigans At The Courtroom!_ and even _Best Of Patrick Jane: Over-the-Top Plane Confession!_ – fill the page in their appalling glory, and for a moment he isn't even sure what he's looking at.

"I didn't set it up," adds Wylie in alarmed undertones. "But, uh – you're kind of an internet sensation? I mean, well. Obviously you, uh – you do a lot of, you know. Crazy stuff? And you've been doing it for a while, so uh – some people took an interest."

The young agent grins briefly, shrugs, then turns back to the screen.

"Nice confession, by the way."

"Confession?"

"Your, uh – your love confession to Lisbon? On the plane. _This_ one. It was daring and, uh – _totally_ cool. No wonder she didn't go to DC."

He clicks on one of the videos – a shaky feed in low resolution, obviously taken from a phone. His own body appears on the screen, shaking with pain and exhaustion, covered in sweat, a desperate expression on his face – and the top of Lisbon's head is visible in the middle seat.

 _12B_ , his mind supplies. _She was sitting in 12B_ , confirms the pang of his heart.

" _– forgotten to act like a normal human being. And I play games, and I lie, and I – and I trick people to avoid the truth of how I feel. And the idea of letting anyone close to me is – is – is terrifying, for obvious reasons. But the truth, Teresa –_ "

" _Stop_ that video," he says, teeth clenched.

"Sure."

He covers his face with his right hand, pushing down on the wave of desperation brought up by seeing her alive and well – even just a small piece of her on a recording taken a year ago. Brought up by the fact he has no idea if he'll ever see her again, and if those videos won't be the only way for him to see her moving, hear her voice again.

A deep breath to settle the tremors inside, and he looks up again.

"Okay," he says, voice a little roughened. "So – you're saying the footage I need is on this website?"

"Yeah," answers Wylie, scrolling down the screen. "Lisbon was in a few of your early stunts, so she's been noticed – _ah_. There."

" ' _Mentalisbon_ ' ?" he frowns.

"I know, right?" chuckles Wylie. "They went _nuts_ over that one. Honestly, I'm surprised people aren't hounding you on the streets. _Boy_ you have some _crazy_ fangirls out there."

He clicks on the title.

Lisbon's face fills the screen.

She looks distressed, halfway between worried and terrified. Following her are six impressive FBI agents – including Vega, and he doesn't miss Wylie's wince when the camera catches her lean form for a second. The crowd doesn't pay her much attention when she climbs on the podium – except of course for the cameraman's string of non-stop muttered " _oh my God_ "'s and " _I can't believe it's really her!_ " – but that changes when she takes the microphone and greets them.

The effort it takes to shift his gaze to the crowd is daunting. But it pays – fifteen minutes in, just as Lisbon calls out the deal, he finally sees it.

" _There!_ Wylie, stop the video!"

He walks to the screen, points out a man in the crowd.

" _Him_. That's him."

"You mean – "

"Lazarus," he confirms grimly. "He was there that day."

They share a silent look.

"I'll go talk to Abbott," says Wylie, nodding.

He takes a few deep breath to calm himself, because this – this is _huge_. This could mean a break in the case – this could mean _finding Lisbon soon_. But what it implies is also terrifying. Because if he's right, if the man he pointed out, if this small shadow at the farther end of an excited crowd _really_ is Lazarus, _then_ –

"Hey," says Abbott, coming in. "Wylie said you found your lead?"

Then he stops, looks at the screen and frowns.

"Is that the jewel heist from six months ago? The one where Lisbon – "

" – pretended to be a psychic in front of a crowd. Yeah."

He taps his finger against the man's form.

"He was there. Same body language. That's him – I'm sure of it."

"Oh my God," whispers Abbott. "You mean to tell me he thinks _Lisbon_ – ?"

He nods.

"That's probably why he tested me on the radio earlier, then called me a fake right away. He must have been watching us – must have seen her being there every time I did a show these last few weeks."

He swallows painfully, then waves to the screen.

"He never had an interest in me – must have thought I was an actor paid to protect her or something. But this – this is why he took _her_. He thinks _Lisbon_ has psychic powers."

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Dawn**


	6. Hour 05: Dawn - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** To all of you who review relentlessly, sometimes even catching up and reviewing several chapters in a row, _**thank you**_. Honestly I often find myself bouncing on my chair a little as I read your comments, and more than a few of you moved me to tears. It means so much to me.

You've all been very patient with this early exposition, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. Next one, we get to see Lisbon again.

* * *

 **Hour 5: Jane**  
 **Dawn**

Sitting on his couch, wrapped in the blanket he brought from home, he waits.

The bullpen is buzzing with activity now, agents coming and going everywhere, others hard at work at their desk or in the conference room. Abbott is in his office, dealing with the higher-ups, requesting permissions and unlocking sensitive parts of the investigation. Tork is on the phone making extravagant hand gestures, trying to convince whomever he's talking to that waiting until the morning to get the information they need _isn't_ possible. Cho is pouring over lists of names and possible hits while his computer is searching for Lazarus through facial recognition. Wylie is –

– _who knows_ what Wylie is doing? He cannot make head or tail of any of the three screens on his desk, all he knows is that the young man is as busy as the rest of them.

And _he_ waits.

It's time for police work to shine. There isn't anything more for him to do for now – they already dissected the footage to find a better picture than the small, pixelated blob they got from the video in which Lazarus was identified. They didn't find anything, but now they know what to look for. They don't need him to point out more of the obvious.

There's nothing for him to do, and it's driving him _nuts_.

After a few minutes he gets up, unable to take this sitting around any longer. Tiredness is starting to creep up on him – idleness never did him any good, and waiting games aren't his _forte_. Pacing in the bullpen – or in the conference room for that matter – would be distracting to his co-workers, so he paces in the hallway instead, soles playing a rhythmic staccato against the hard, shining floor.

When a yawn ambushes him, he starts pulling on his hair to stay awake.

 _This isn't good. This isn't good at all.  
_

He quickly peek in Abbott's office and, seeing the man's tired features, realises there _is_ in fact one thing he could do. It isn't a glamorous job – it doesn't put his cleverness to work, and doesn't help find Lisbon either, at least not directly.

But it's useful.

It will keep his hands busy, for a while at least.

And it will boost the team's morale, a task he never shied away from.

He grins tiredly, does a quick headcount around the place, then moves to the kitchen.

 _Thirty-two people, counting Abbott – hope there's enough mugs in the cupboards._

Losing himself in the familiar gestures of making coffee, he amuses himself trying to guess everyone's perfect order. _This_ analyst looks like a man who drinks his coffee with _a lot_ of sugar. _That_ agent, on the other hand, definitely takes hers with milk. Tork probably takes milk too – no, _cream_. Yes. Tork is a coffee-with-cream man. He already knows Wylie likes to add hazelnut syrup to his milk-and-sugar brew, and Cho of course takes it black as night –

– _just like Lisbon does, unless she's in a playful mood. Then she takes a dash of vanilla and –_

He bites his lip, puts the first batch on a tray and makes round. The gratefulness he reads on their exhausted faces is nice, even though he refuses to stay long enough to hear their thanks. After finding more mugs in the cupboard over the fridge and filling everyone's at least once, he ends up knocking on the door to Abbott's office.

"Hey," he says, getting in. "Since there's no coffee break allowed, I thought coffee should come to you."

Abbott looks up, then removes his glasses and rubs his eyes before looking up again.

"Wow. Jane, you _really_ are a godsend."

"Bet you've never been so happy to see me."

"Really can't thank you enough."

"Meh. It's nothing."

He's about to turn around to leave when Abbott raises his voice.

"Hey, uhm. I wanted to apologise for earlier. I was stressed, but it's not an excuse. I was out of line."

He slightly rocks on his feet in uneasiness.

"It's fine," he says, brushing off the man's apologies with a casual hand gesture. "Don't worry about it. You listened when I needed you to, that's the most important thing. Had bosses who didn't before, it always turned up badly. For them, of course."

Abbott opens his mouth, but before the man can say anything, he shrugs and flashes a quick grin. One that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it's the best he can muster right now.

"Hey, some people even said I wasn't easy to work with, can you believe that?"

"I really _cannot_ see why," smirks Abbott.

"Right?"

A second grin, and he's out the door.

"Well. Enjoy your coffee."

The grin falls as soon as Abbott is out of sight.

One more coffee round later, he finds himself without an occupation again. For a second he wonders if he shouldn't go out and buy snacks, or even breakfast for everyone – but then common sense prevails. If they find a lead to where Lisbon is held, he wants to be there, ride with them. He _needs_ to be there, and he knows they wouldn't wait for him – heck, he wouldn't _want_ them to, not if it means getting Lisbon back faster.

So he gets back to his couch.

Then gets back up, and makes himself some tea.

Then back to the couch, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders again.

Looks around.

Sips some tea.

Rubs his eyes, contains a yawn.

And waits.

 _Again_.

Abbott's apology is still echoing in his mind, and _that_ does nothing for his peace of mind.

A few desks away, he notices Tork getting antsy again. For a moment he keeps silent, glancing at him now and then – watching the way he squirms, chews on his lips, then on the tip of his fingers. Watching his leg bounce up and down, the sweat on his forehead. The way his eyes are rolling, how his hands start shaking.

Then he gets up.

"Tork," he calls. "What are you working on?"

The agent pushes his chair as far away as he can.

"I'm doing my job!" he protests immediately.

"I know that. Just want to know _what_ you're working on."

Tork's eyes are still narrowed and suspicious, but he slinks back slowly in front of the computer.

"Uh, running a program to see if one of those thousand videos on Wylie's fan site holds similar footage. Maybe we can get a better shot."

He nods, comes closer. Tork moves out of his way as if he had rabies.

"Anything yet?"

"Uh – no. I'm analysing a promising one right now, but it's a slow process."

The man starts chewing on his fingers again. He rolls his eyes.

"Go smoke your cigarette, Tork," he says quietly.

"Huh?"

"I'll stay here, check if there's a hit for you. I can do that without exploding the machine, right?"

"No – I'm okay."

"You're not okay. You're getting so anxious it's distracting you from your work. Just go. I'll wait here, and if there's a hit I'll – I don't know, I'll ask Wylie for help or something. It'll just take a minute or two, right?"

Tork is looking at him as if he suddenly grew a second head, but the call of his addiction is too strong.

"You won't lose your shit at me again?" he asks, getting up slowly.

He shakes his head.

"You sure? 'Cause I can – "

"Just _go_."

"O – okay."

"Hey," he calls, just before Tork gets too far. "I, uh – I'm sorry. For earlier."

The agent hesitates, then shrugs.

"It's fine. You're entitled."

He doesn't have to wait long – as promised, Tork is quick to come back, grateful and with renewed energy. From his place two desks away, Cho nods at him with approval. He ignores it, uneasy with the knowledge his small act of kindness had more witnesses than his intended recipient.

Guilt hasn't allowed him to enjoy that kind of attention for years.

Back on his couch, he sips his tea slowly, trying to find comfort in the hot beverage warming up his chest. But there's traffic between his mouth and brain, and it's like the taste never makes it to his cognisant mind. By the time the cup is empty, he cannot remember if he got Assam, Darjeeling, or English Breakfast anymore, or even if it was the fancy wulong tea Lisbon got him for Thanksgiving.

Then his gaze falls on the wedding ring still adorning his left hand, and he forgets about the tea entirely.

 _She wanted me to take it off._

"Jane."

He looks up, surprised to find his vision blurry, surprised to see Cho standing there with a worried expression – until he realises his throat is raw, his cheeks are soaked with tears, and most of the people in the bullpen are very deliberately not looking at him.

"Come with me," says Cho, patting his shoulder twice.

He gets up, follows until they reach one of the interrogation rooms. Cho urges him inside, closes the blinds and the door in the same efficient movement, and – arms crossed – sits on one of the available chairs. Reluctantly, without a word, he sits in the other one – trying to contain the waterfalls, and failing miserably.

After a while, he just stops trying.

"We'll get her back," says Cho quietly.

"You _cannot_ promise that."

"No. But I can choose to believe it."

"I've never been good at _believing_."

"Then maybe it's time to take a leaf out of Lisbon's book and learn to have a little faith."

He wipes his cheeks angrily.

"How can I do that when I _know_ how she acts before danger? She's so _reckless_ – "

" _Reckless?!_ " interrupts Cho. "What are you talking about? Lisbon's the most cautious person I know!"

"What are _you_ talking about?! She rushes into danger like nothing could ever happen to her! I _counted_ on that to trick her out of the way when we caught the – the Bittaker case!"

"There's a difference between acting in defence of other, and protecting yourself!"

" _No there isn't!_ Or if there is, I – I really don't see what it is. Not where she's concerned, not with the way she acts."

Cho rubs his forehead with three fingers for a moment, then looks at him again.

"Alright. I didn't realise you still think like a civilian about this. It's not really my place to – "

Then his friend frowns, eyeing him with a suspicious expression.

"Wait, have you two _ever_ talked about this?"

He stays silent.

"Man, you two need to get better at communication."

" _Thanks_ , Dr. Love," he answers dryly.

"Listen. From a cop point of view, Lisbon isn't reckless at all – she takes calculated risks. Yes, she likes to be part of the action, we all do, but she would _never_ put her life in danger unless there was a _very_ good reason. In a hostage situation, for example. Or if _you_ were in danger."

"Yeah, well – there's just _one_ tiny little problem. _Her life is already in danger!_ "

This time Cho stays silent before his outburst.

"She was kidnapped by a killer who murdered ten people in the last year. _Just in the last year!_ And she was taken because I was _stupid_ enough to convince her to run along with a _stupid_ plan that I thought _so clever_ at the time. And now she has to – to _what_ , to convince a _trigger happy psychopath_ not to kill her when he realises she _doesn't_ have the psychic powers he thinks she has?"

He tries biting his knuckle again – then his teeth catch his previous injury, and he flinches.

"Lazarus _killed_ Gabriel because he couldn't fake it well enough!" he adds, anguished. "And he was _good_ , Cho – that kid was the best I've ever seen."

"You think Lisbon cannot compare?"

Stunned, he opens his mouth, then closes it again – unwilling to condemn her with his own words. His friend's black stare is drilling into his.

"Gabriel couldn't trick Lazarus because he believed he had powers," says Cho. "Lisbon on the other hand, she saw you trick people into believing _you_ had powers for years. Remember when you went to Vegas for six months?"

He nods. Wipes his eyes again.

"Ever got a look at our stats from that time?"

"No. I don't care about those, you know that."

"What about the cases we closed?"

"I had other priorities at the time."

Cho uncrosses his arms and puts his hands face down on the table, looking tired and resolute at once.

"You never realised she spent six months channelling you?"

He blinks.

"What?"

"Jane, when you were in Vegas, Lisbon used every trick in the book to replace you herself. She never got the same results you do – but man, she got _good_. _Scary_ good. Hounded suspects until they confessed, hypnotised witnesses without them ever realising it, tricked and tripped criminals with mind games, you name it. Rigsby, Van Pelt and I, we tried too but we never got close. _Lisbon?_ She _nailed_ it."

"I never saw her do any of that."

"Of course not."

"Well, why not?"

"She hates it. If you're around to do it for her, she'll happily let you take front stage. It doesn't mean she doesn't know how to trick people. You taught her well. Worse comes to worse, she at least knows how to stall for time until we find her. And we _will_ find her, Jane. I'll make sure of that."

He stays silent, chewing on his bottom lip. Cho gets up, pushes the chair back against the table.

"Listen, gotta go back to work. Think about it. Stay here as long as you need to."

For a long time he doesn't move from the interrogation room, trying to calm himself, learning how to breathe again. It's not that he doesn't want to believe Cho – he does, more than anything. But until Lisbon is back by his side, the bad memories are easier to remember than the good, and the fears are harder to forget.

In the end, he rubs his eyes and gets out – crying won't solve anything and doesn't even make him feel better. It just reminds him of the pit of guilt and sadness over which he dangles, waiting to see if the single thread holding his sanity will be cut out before he can pull himself to safety.

When he comes back to the bullpen, a fine dark blue line is already growing on the horizon. He stays, transfixed, as it turns to light blue, then white, then a warm yellow that lifts the darkness.

Dawn is breaking.

And Lisbon has been missing for six hours already.

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Hospital**


	7. Hour 06: Hospital - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Some of you have been waiting a long time for this! Hope it doesn't disappoint.  
Sorry for the bout of fourth wall break, by the way. Almost removed it, but then Lisbon decided to be _sassy_ about it – and I'm a sucker for sassy!Lisbon, so there you go. Can't be worse than the "Mentalisbon" pun, anyway. :-)

 **Warnings:** Lisbon being Catholic and under duress, expect prayers and other things related to Faith and religion (that goes for all of her chapters actually). If this triggers you, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Hour 6: Lisbon**  
 **Hospital**

She drifts in and out of consciousness for hours.

At first, pain and disorientation makes it so hard to think she gladly gives in to sleep. She remembers the crash, glass falling all over her, and fear – but she's so _tired_ , barely aware of being moved, transported to another vehicle and rolled off to an unknown location. So she lets herself drift off, uncaring what happens to her body as long as the pain in her head fades along with reality.

The next time she wakes up, strong-scented chemical products attack her senses – it must be an ambulance, she confusedly thinks. Yes, that's it. Those are the smells of disinfectant, it must be. She'll wake up in the morning in a hospital bed, Jane by her side, and they'll tell her that her car is fine, just a window to replace, nothing worse –

– _alright, maybe not. The car must be totalled if anything else._

The third time, she feels cold metal bite into her wrists and rough fabric rubbing against the sensitive skin of her face. Her body is moved with pulls and jerks, left in an awkward sitting position, but she has so much trouble identifying up from down and left from right, when they stop moving her she just lets herself float away again. It's _easier_ – and _everything else_ will be easier to deal with in the morning.

 _Right?_

She wakes up at dawn, handcuffed to a table made of coarse, untreated wood, with a bag of jute over her head.

 _Oh God._

At first she stays unmoving, trying to make sense of the situation despite her intense confusion. Unable to see, unable to _hear_ – the fabric muffles the sounds and make her own breathing the loudest noise around – and unable to move from the table someone chained her to, her first reflex is to pray. Pray for this to be a nightmare, pray for her to wake up. And, when it doesn't work, pray to _at least_ be delivered from pain, confusion and nausea – so that she can start working on _getting herself out of here_.

"Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus," she whispers, the familiar rhythm of the holy words slowly lulling her frantic heartbeats to a more manageable level. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

She repeats the prayer a second time, then a third before feeling calm enough to rationally assess her situation.

 _This isn't good._

The pain in her head abates a little, just enough for adrenaline to kick in and allow her to remain on high alert – the first good thing that happened since she woke up, as far as she's concerned. A few deep breaths later, she manages to hold her respiration a little, just long enough to try and hear something over the noises produced by her own body.

No luck. Either the crash damaged her hearing, or she's being kept in a bunker – or any other removed, sound-proof location.

 _Let's hope it's the second option._

She can deal with being trapped in an isolated room – if she was left there, it means there's at least one way out she can find. But damaged hearing means loss of balance, and that would mean running is out of the questions.

 _And that means things could get very ugly, very fast._

So, no sounds, and just enough light in the room to see it through the jute over her face. Okay. Logically, whoever is keeping her a prisoner isn't trying to kill her, at least not right away – they wouldn't go through all the trouble of abducting and neutralising her just to get rid of her as soon as she wakes up. Right?

Which means they want something.

 _But what?_

She isn't naive enough to think this was a random act of senseless violence – she's been in law enforcement long enough to know better. They're hunting a serial killer who abducts and kills people – getting to the conclusion that same killer is behind her current predicament is only common sense. The only thing that doesn't make sense in this scenario is why Lazarus took _her_ instead of Jane.

There isn't time to think about it further – behind her, the clicks and clacks of a door being unlocked loudly break the silence. She focuses on taking slow, deep breaths, in and out, to quiet the jolt of panic running through her veins. Then the bag is violently yanked off her head and she blinks owlishly, blinded by the sudden light.

"Water?" says a man on her right.

His voice is strangely _neutral_ – politely cold, completely devoid of emotion whether it be empathy for her plight or the normal tension one would expect from someone committing a crime.

"Thank you."

She kicks herself as soon as the words pass her lips – but the man seems oddly pleased to see her so calm and polite, and she carefully files that information to examine later. He gives her the bottle of water, and she takes a small sip – it's pleasantly cool, refreshing both her body and mind, washing away the last traces of the nausea she woke up with.

"Do you know who I am?" the man asks, slowly walking back and forth behind her.

She bites her lip, hesitates only slightly.

"Lazarus," she answers.

"That's right."

He keeps walking behind her like a feral cat. She stays silent, wary of triggering his anger before knowing what he wants from her. After a few long, tense minutes, he finally stops – walks around the table and sits, hand on his right hip.

 _He must have a gun. Crap. Of course he does._

"We met once, you and I," he says. "Do you remember?"

She frowns, shakes her head.

"Look at me."

She does.

Short brown hair, hazel eyes, medium height. Light skin unblemished by wrinkles, with a small crease in his chin. A hint of facial hair – doubtless he took the time to shave before coming here. He's probably somewhere in his mid-thirties, but there's a young, ageless quality to his face that makes him look a lot younger. His clothes are cheap, but very clean. His expression is eager, feverish – and utterly cold at the same time. And when he's upright, he walks silently, with the stance of a hunter – though it doesn't mean he hunts. It may only be that he feels in control.

He _does_ look a little familiar, but for the life of her she cannot figure out where she saw him before.

"I do _not_ know you," she says, doing her best to appear as calm and collected as he does.

"It doesn't surprise me that you'd deny it," he smiles. "After all, you've been hiding behind a patsy these last few weeks. But you can't hide from _me_."

 _What?_

"I – I don't know what you're talking about," she says, left hand climbing to her neck, to the cross hanging there.

He scoffs, as if laughing at a joke she isn't privy to.

"Alright. Let's jog your memory."

He takes out his gun, places it carefully on the table, keeping a finger on the trigger and the canon trailed on her. She tenses, unable to stop her hands from clenching reflexively on themselves, her nails from painfully boring into her palms. As much as she wants to, she isn't in a position to leap off and take the weapon from him.

"How long have you been working for the FBI?"

"About a year."

"And before that?"

"I – was in California, working for – "

She takes a sharp breath.

" _Wait_. Does this have anything to do with the Blake Association?"

He chuckles.

"No."

She doesn't know whether she should feel dread or relief. On the one hand, at least that part of her past isn't cropping up to haunt her again. On the other hand, she still has no idea why he seems interested in her, nor exactly where they met.

Then his grin turns brutal, and his eyes vicious.

"Six months ago, you were hired to work on a gem heist – do you remember _that?_ "

She frowns – then her eyes widen. A vague, _so very vague_ memory of a man following her outside after the arrest tickles her mind. She remembers how he asked – no, _begged_ her – for contact with a recently deceased spirit. How Cho had to order him restrained so she could get back to the office safely, as she had neither gun nor badge with her at the time.

Lazarus' expression becomes satisfied.

"I see you _do_. I was there that day, remember? I saw you talking to the crowd. Pick a woman at random – tell her about her _dog_."

He gets up, starts walking back and forth again, waving his gun in the air – and she stays silent because she has no idea what to say to someone so completely _deranged_ , at least not without getting a bullet for her trouble.

"I didn't believe it then," he adds. "Never thought dogs had souls. But then you talked with the spirit of that dead man, and – _heh_. You _caught_ her. You caught his killer, that young girl, and I gotta say – _that_ was very impressive."

"You – you're wrong," she says, swallowing convulsively. "It was a trick. Just good police work, and a trick. I don't have any powers."

He stops then, looks at her with an expression akin to _tenderness_ – an expression that makes her skin crawl.

"I looked you up, you know."

He raises his eyebrows at her, and she swallows painfully again.

"They have you on their website as a very respectable FBI agent. Is that why you've been working with a patsy all that time?"

" _What?_ What patsy?"

"I understand, you know. There aren't many people who believe in psychic powers. I hear the gift is often considered a burden, so with powers as strong as yours, it makes sense you'd want someone to be your face in the medias. So you can protect your own life."

He shakes his head.

"Shame it got you the wrong kind of attention though. I can't imagine how you must have felt when that killer went after your patsy's family."

 _Oh my God. Is he talking about_ Jane?!

"But you two _got him_ in the end! That too was impressive. Reading up on you, it was almost like watching a TV show – all those _twists_ and _turns_."

"Glad my life entertains you," she says dryly.

"Don't be _funny_."

"I'm not _trying_ to be funny. It's just – "

 _Careful_ , she reminds herself. He killed ten people, and he still has a gun – even when he's so dramatically mistaken the normal reaction would be laughter, he remains dangerous.

"It's just, I don't understand how you could come to this conclusion."

"I did my research. Asked around. They all say it's _uncanny_ how good a cop you are. You're using your gift to help in your work. I _know_ it."

"It's very flattering," she answers, tensing inside. "But I just do good police work. That's all. I'm sorry," she adds. "What you saw was a clever trick. I don't have powers."

"I'm not wrong. You _do_ have powers."

"No. I don't."

" _I am not wrong!_ " he yells, slamming a hand against the table and pointing the gun at her.

She closes her eyes, shrinking on herself, waiting for him to shoot – and waiting, waiting some more, until she looks up and realises he's just standing there, calm and collected again. A cold weight settles at the bottom of her stomach when she realises just how unhinged he is – because she _knew_ , because it was obvious _in theory_ and she even saw a few hints of it earlier, but being confronted with the full proof of his insanity is a whole lot more terrifying.

"I have enough of you lying to me," says Lazarus, voice again completely devoid of emotions. " _I know what I saw_. So I'm gonna give you a choice."

He pulls the chair and sits, staring at her like a starving dog.

"Whatever you say next, I'm gonna believe you. So if you say you _do_ have powers, then I'll forget about the last few minutes and we'll move past this. Easy, right?"

She's still facing the wrong end of his gun, and has no idea what of the weapon or his blank stares scares her the most.

"If you say you don't, then I'll shoot you where you are – and _after that_ , I'll find your patsy and bring him here. You've been working together long enough. Maybe he has powers of his own."

She closes her eyes, clenches her fist around her cross.

 _Hail Mary, full of Grace. Oh God, Jane._

"A – alright," she says, choked up – clearing her voice, trying again. " _Okay_. You're right. You're right, I _do_. I do have powers."

Lazarus' self-satisfied smile makes her sick to her stomach.

"Good," he says. "I knew you'd be reasonable, in the end."

 _Oh God_.

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Strawberries**


	8. Hour 06: Strawberries - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** A bit of a breather chapter to kick off Act 2. Hope you enjoy banter and Wylie. Lots of Wylie.

By the way, I'll try to keep this up as long as I can, but it's only been 8 days and I already half-want to die. So if I miss an update it's because I couldn't keep the creative juices flowing while sleeping less than 5 hours a night anymore. (Hopefully I'll find a way to fix the sleeplessness problem before we get to that.)

* * *

 **Hour 6: Jane**  
 **Strawberries**

From where he sits, he spies the sunlight's progression across the room.

At first only a shy glimmer on the polished floor, it slowly grows, spreads warm and comforting over the many desks, the worn leather of his couch, and even on the left side of his own face. It shines on the metallic parts of the chairs, makes the paper forms brighter, and lessens the need for artificial lighting. He sees its influence on the mood of the working agents as it reaches them – how they relax minutely, how they concentrate better, how they suddenly look just a little less tired than they did an hour ago.

They still need a generous flow of caffeine – one he's happy to provide every half an hour. They still yawn tiredly and stretch painful muscles from sitting at their desk for too long. But things are looking up, and the morale of the troops is boosted by the new afflux of vitamin D – or whatever else they get from a faceful of sunshine.

And as for the effect on himself – he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

Releases it slowly.

Repeats the process a few times.

The weight crushing him seems a little lighter. It's harder to let his fears take over when the morning sun makes the meaning of _darkness_ fade ever so slightly from his mind.

"Hey. Strawberry?"

He opens his eyes, blinks a few times – Wylie, a bright smile on his face, is holding a Tupperware bowl full of red fruits right under his nose.

"Oh. Uhm, why not? Thank you."

The sweet and acidic taste on his tongue washes away the last fuzzy remnants of the night, and brings back energy he didn't realise had left him. Even the small pang coming from the reminder of how much Lisbon loves her strawberries is a reason to _keep going_.

"Feeling better?" asks Wylie. "I think you slept a little there – a few minutes or so? You _look_ better, anyway."

He gets up, stretches his back, then steals a second strawberry and smiles – the first real smile to grace his lips in what seems a long time.

"What are you working on?" he asks, popping the piece of fruit in his mouth.

"Uh – a few things. _This_ program here is scanning traffic feeds to see if we couldn't get an idea of what kind of vehicle he used after he ditched the pick-up. _That_ one is an algorithm I wrote, it's searching the web to see if there isn't another video that wasn't on the fan site. And _this_ one – "

"Looks like a chat room," he says, raising his eyebrows.

"It is. Well, it's a forum – on the occult. You said he was doing something weird with the blood, right? So I decided to follow up on that, 'cause I keep an eye on the other things but mostly they run by themselves."

He rubs his chin, reading over Wylie's shoulder for a few seconds.

"Is this something I could do?" he finally asks

Wylie blinks, staring at him like he's growing a second head.

"Well, it's just reading, right?" he adds, feeling a little defensive. "I bet I could read more quickly than you do. If you tell me what you're looking for, either we cover more material in a shorter time or it frees you to do something else."

"O – okay. Uhm. Well, find yourself a chair and I'll show you?"

He nods, and looks around. No chair left in the bullpen. He rolls his eyes, walks to Abbott's office.

"Hey," he says, interrupting the man's conversation with two agents. "Just taking a chair. Don't mind me."

He grabs one of Abbott's sofas, thankful to find it a lot lighter than if looks, and pulls it to the bullpen without caring about the incredulous stares following him. It's not like he isn't used to them anyway.

"Is that from Abbott's office?" asks Wylie when he sets the padded chair beside the desk.

"No sense in burning my eyes on a screen if my backside isn't comfortable."

"Good point," calls Cho from his desk a few feet away, smirking. "We should all ask for new sitting accommodations."

"Yes, you should. It's way too hard and cold around here. Would brighten the place."

"Doubt Abbott would sign the waiver. He'd probably tell us to take turns on your couch."

"As if anyone would dare," Wylie laughs.

"Meh, no need to steal mine," he chuckles. "Abbott's a big push-over. With the right leverage he'd be putty in your hands, you'd all get your own."

"Yeah, there's just the little problem of blackmail being illegal."

"Doesn't mean you can't use it."

"No – but it means you _shouldn't_."

"Well I _did_ – and look what I got!" he grins, with a gesture to his couch.

"About that – why aren't you using it now?"

"Well, it's a couch. Wylie told me to get a _chair_ – I'm just obeying orders here."

Cho chuckles.

"First time for everything."

He grins again.

It's been a while since they had an occasion to banter like this. And it may not be the right moment – it may be inappropriate to be cheerful when Lisbon is missing and in danger, when he has no idea where to find her, when _this is all his fault_ – but there is only so much despair and self-loathing he can soak in before his old coping mechanisms take over. Being playful is his fortress – the only way for him to put his guilt aside long enough to do what needs to be done.

And there is _much_ to be done.

"So, how does it work?" he asks, rubbing his hands together.

"Uh, here," says Wylie, opening a laptop and plugging wires everywhere. "There's about six hundred hits left to check, so uuuuuh – we need to read all of them."

"Okay. What are we looking for?"

"Uses of blood? Anything suspicious."

He nods, already looking over the first wall of text.

The next few minutes are spent reading in silence. Most of it is nonsensical drivel, allusions to supposedly "ancient rituals" blatantly inspired by Christianity, New Age nonsense, a lot of discussions on theoretical uses of blood by teenagers taking themselves too seriously. Some messages seem written for shock value by snarky people – _trolls_ , Wylie calls them, though he isn't quite sure he understands the mythological reference – but none of them look especially deranged or dangerous.

After half an hour he has enough already. The work is tedious and hasn't amounted to anything yet.

 _Still more than half the data left. This is too slow._

"What keywords are you using for the search?" he asks.

"Uh, 'blood' and 'occult' mostly, with a filter to remove everything to do with eye diseases."

"Maybe we should add some more."

Wylie turns away from his screen, meets his gaze.

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, maybe we could start with 'gems'," he says, rubbing his eyes. "He must have been at that gem show for _something_ – my bet is he was planning on buying a large diamond."

"Why a diamond?"

He waves a hand tiredly.

"People who believe in _that_ sort of things usually also say rocks – all sorts of rocks really, but mostly precious and semi-precious gems – have magical properties. They are supposed to 'amplify and conduct energy' better. And there are probably specific properties he's interested in – but the true reason, of course, is that someone ready to commit murder for his beliefs wouldn't be satisfied with a mere crystal. He'd want something a little more _flashy_."

"That – makes a lot of sense. I mean, it _would_ – if I actually believed in magic."

"No such things," he yawns.

"Okay, so uh – let me just – "

Wylie lets his sentence trail unfinished as he turns back to his computer and starts typing furiously. He watches the young man work for a moment, but soon enough loses interest and gets up, intent on making himself a new cup of tea.

When he comes back to the bullpen, the analyst is stretching his back beside his desk.

"Everything okay?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah," says Wylie. "I added the keywords you suggested, it's sweeping right now. Should get results soon."

He frowns.

"Shouldn't it be quicker than that?"

Wylie grins smugly.

"It _would_ be if I wasn't sweeping a few websites and encrypted databases I'm not supposed to be able to access," he says, voice lowered. "Can't be as quick if I want to cover my tracks."

He nods, takes a sip – he has no idea what it entails, but recognises the self-satisfaction from being around Van Pelt after she came back from her hacker seminar.

"Wylie, if we have time I wanted to ask you," he says, putting down his teacup on an empty space near the laptop. "How did you find that website from earlier? The one with all those videos?"

Wylie blinks then blushes, looks around to be sure nobody is listening on them. The closest agents around are Tork, who is hunched over a stack of paper and seems lost to the world, and Cho, who works on his computer quietly, focussed on his task. He grins inwardly when he notices the small quirk at the corner of Cho's lips – Wylie may be reassured that no one is paying them attention, but he isn't as oblivious.

"It's, uh – it's been online for a really long time, actually," says the young agent, shoulders tensing slightly. "I found it something like – I don't know, eight years ago maybe?"

He blinks.

"Eight years?"

He blinks again.

" _Eight?_ "

"Uhm, yeah? I was maybe – sixteen, something like that. Someone uploaded footage of you causing troub – _I mean_ , doing a card trick as part of your testimony in court."

"Oh yeah," he chuckles softly, his heart clenching with a bittersweet pang. "I remember doing that."

 _Lisbon was so mad with me – and so easy to rile up._

"Yeah so uh, for a while they just uploaded what they called 'Court Shenanigans' – made me want to become a judge for a while, you made the job look so _fun!_ But then I guess you got a little famous for that, 'cause over the time they started catching your tricks. The public ones, anyway."

"Do you remember which?" he frowns.

"Uh, well there's that time you got into a party by telling a Russian gangster you had a painting he wanted, but actually it was a drawing made by something like a five years old?"

He stares in shock.

"There's a video of that?"

"It was caught by the security camera," laughs Wylie. "Someone there must have found it really funny 'cause they put it on Youtube. The people in charge of your fan site uploaded it in their database soon after. Why did you want to get to that party, anyway?"

"Uh, to steal the painting."

Wylie blinks.

"Really?"

"Yeah, but it was a fake," says Cho, eyes still on his computer. "Anything else you remember?"

Wylie's initial embarrassment at Cho overhearing is short-lived – soon enough he grins, cheeks barely pinking, eager to talk.

"There were news reports of you escaping prison, and an interview with a security guard who was there at the time. There was one – no wait, _two_ – Karen Cross shows. Oh, _oh_ , and the time you caught Felicia Scott for murder on camera! That one _really_ kicked off your fame. That's when I figured you worked with the cops."

"That why you became one?" asks Cho, amused.

"Well – _yeah_. I mean, by the time I got out of college you were already wanted by the FBI – and I was in the right track, so I figured why not join the hunt?"

He blinks again. Wylie, probably seeing the look on his face, backtracks immediately.

"Not like _that!_ I just – figured it'd be the easiest way to maybe meet you. One day? And – and then I did, and – well, it's _great_. Working with you?"

Cho's repressed hilarity and the look he sends in his direction makes his message plain – _you've got yourself a fanboy_. He isn't quite sure how to react to that knowledge, but a loud beep from Wylie's computer diverts their attention from the young analyst's enthusiastic babble.

"Sweep _done!_ Alright, let's see what this bad boy has to say – whoa, two hundred hits! Well, that's better I guess."

They set up the laptop he used earlier again, and he settles on Abbott's stolen sofa once more.

Break over.

 _Let's do this_.

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Games**


	9. Hour 07: Games - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** A huge thank you to everyone who reads and reviews, and especially to all of you who reviewed today (well, yesterday now). I didn't know how badly I needed your kind words. Also, a hundred reviews already? _Wow_. Thank you so, so much.

It's a bit early to talk about finding a second wind, but writing today has been a lot less painful than in the last three so let's just hope it will last. In any case, enjoy this chapter. :-)

 **Warning:** Catholic prayers and awkward bathroom scene. Nothing should be too triggering, but in any case, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Hour 7: Lisbon**  
 **Games**

Deep breath in.

 _You have to sell it, Lisbon_ , says Jane's voice in her mind. _Play for time if you have to_.

 _I don't know how!_

 _Sure you do_ , he chuckles. _You've seen me do this heaps of times_.

Deep breath out.

 _You've told me so many times how much of a bad liar I am. How am I supposed_ _now_ _to lie well enough to save my life_ _– and_ yours?

Jane's voice stays silent in her mind, and she scrunches her eyes hard.

Deep breath in –

 _It's a game_ _– this is how you need to see it, a game with high stakes._ _It's just that this time, losing isn't an option. But you can do this. It's just like a poker game._

– and out.

Then opens them again. Lazarus is watching her with a placid expression, hand loosely resting on his gun, his whole body language screaming at her to be careful despite its apparent impassivity. She swallows, then relaxes the dead grip on her cross, joins her hands before her on the table.

"Why am I here? What exactly do you want from me?" she asks, keeping her voice calm and steady.

He looks briefly pleased, then becomes placid again.

"You can contact spirits, can you? See and hear things."

"They come to me," she answers, biting her lip. "If – if the right conditions are met. You can't just make it happen like that."

Her first gamble is met with a stony silence, and for a second she wonders if she already pushed too far. But then Lazarus scoffs.

"The other one said something like that. You know who I mean?"

A chill creeps up her spine, making her shiver. She nods.

 _Gabriel._

"So I tested him. He was a liar."

The gun is pointed on her again.

"Do I need to test you, too?"

She swallows, but keeps her eyes on his – because the first rule when playing poker is to appear confident, enough that nobody will notice your bluff.

"You _can_ , if you want – but I told you, it won't just work like that. So even if you try to test me, it _won't work_."

He cocks his head to the side, as if considering whether to shoot her right away and be done with it, or listen some more.

"How will it work then?"

"I need some things."

" _What_ do you need?" he asks after a beat.

"Small things. Water, like you gave me. Food. And – "

"What else?"

She bites her lip.

"I _really_ need to go to the bathroom."

He narrows his eyes at her, caught off guard, as if suddenly remembering she's _human_ and not just his latest plaything.

Which was the very first of three reasons she made this request to begin with – because she may be scared, her head may be pounding from the crash, making it harder to think on her feet, but she's still a cop with more than twenty years of experience. Though she isn't quite sure how effective her guidelines for hostage situation can be when at the hands of someone like Lazarus, it would be remiss of her to exclude them without even _trying_.

The second reason is to see how well he responds to being pushed around – how much he's ready to give to get what he wants, and how much power it gives _her_ , how much liberty she has to request more later. It's a dangerous line to walk, but it's the only way to _win_.

And the third, of course, is that she really _does_ need to go.

He seems to ponder the request for a few moments, but the small changes of expression on his face already makes her breathe easier. He'll give in.

 _On that point, at least._

"Can it wait?" he asks, getting up already.

"Not for long. Not if you want me to contact the spirits."

"Do you need both food and bathroom right now?"

She hesitates only slightly.

"No."

"Which one do you need more?"

"Bathroom."

He grimaces.

"I'll get you a bucket."

She winces – hoping to be brought to a real bathroom was probably too much. But he walks around the room and, though she refrains from turning around to watch, she can hear a lock clicking open and hinges squeaking slightly, then feel a draft of fresh air around her ankles.

"I'll be back," he says, shutting the door and locking it again.

 _Let's try plan A._

As soon as the door closes, she pulls as hard as she can on the ring holding the chain of her handcuffs, then jumps to her feet and turns around the workbench, trying to figure out how he fixed it to the heavy plank of wood. It looks screwed deep into the board, but nothing she does makes it move. When she realises it won't amount to anything in the next five minutes, she stops – if she cannot free herself easily, then it's time for plan B.

 _Jane's_ plan – the one she was hoping to avoid.

She slowly walks back to her stool, paying attention to her surroundings for the first time since she woke up. The high, small windows make it obvious this is a basement – and the room itself is dusty, except for the table which isn't new but looks clean, as if set up only recently. Which it probably was – she doubt Gabriel was ever held down here. This was a set-up for her own benefit alone.

The brown tattered carpet has a trail of run-down threads going from one door to the other, which hints at the fact Lazarus probably comes down here often – but doesn't stay in _this_ room very long.

 _Wonder what's behind that door?_

The furniture is old – bought-in-the-seventies old, mismatched and discoloured, chosen for comfort rather than style. The high stools and mock bar on her right reminds her of an old hunting shack – the kind of place her own father would go to with his buddies for the week-end in order to escape the chaos brought on by four young children. Even the decoration – old faded paintings, a miniature ship sitting on top of the record player, a single silver moulding of two birds on a tree branch, hunting trinkets – stinks of an old man cave, and it's obvious this place hasn't seen a feminine touch in a while. Or ever.

From where she sits, the books all seem to have either violent or military themes with garish covers from the 70s – or 80s, at the most – but the vintage records and paperbacks are so worn and _loved_ , she can't help but picture a young Lazarus spending time in this room twenty, maybe thirty years ago.

 _Maybe he did. Maybe this used to be his shelter from the world when he was a kid._

Which would mean this place used to belong to his family – probably his father.

 _Jane thought he wanted to contact the spirit of his father, when they spoke on the radio show last night. Lazarus never confirmed it, but it seems likely, considering this place._

She shivers.

 _Considering the_ man _. He's not the type to try and contact the spirit of a deceased girlfriend. A father – a mentor – would be much more likely.  
_

Heavy footsteps on the other side of the door bring her back to reality. She quickly settles on the stool again, pulling on the chains to untwist them, and stays silent as Lazarus locks the door behind him.

"Found this outside," he says abruptly, slamming a metal bucket on the workbench. "Now, I know you have police training, so I'm not gonna mess around. Either I remove your handcuffs and you use it in front of me, or you keep the handcuffs and I go to the next room. Which?"

He looks disgusted, and she can safely say he has no desire to stay and look at her while she relieves herself – which provides a small amount of consolation from the indignity of this whole situation.

"How about I promise to be quick and cause no trouble, you remove the handcuffs _and_ wait in the next room?" she asks, cringing.

"No."

The answer, delivered in a clipped tone, falls sharp as a blade and utterly irrevocable. She pinches her lips, but nods. Her bladder is about to explode.

"I'll keep the handcuffs then," she says.

Pointing the gun at her, he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a key that he slides toward her.

"Unlock your left wrist and put back the key on the table. Good. Now, get up – see the pipes up there? Throw the chain over it."

It takes four tries before she manages to send the chain over the pipe without it falling back on her.

"Good. Now, close the handcuff over your right wrist."

"It makes the chain too short, I won't be able to – " she starts protesting, but one dark glare and she shuts up.

"I'll go in the other room now," he says when she's hooked to the pipe. "You have five minutes – you will count the seconds aloud."

He grabs the bucket and throws it in her direction, turning his back on her as soon as she catches it. She nearly throws it back, hoping to hit his head, but while her left hand is _trained_ , her aim isn't as good and she isn't willing to take that chance.

 _Yet._

"One. Two. Three. Four," she starts counting, growling as she unfastens the buttons and zipper of her trousers.

 _Haven't had an awkward bathroom experience like this since I was four. At least I don't have my p_ –

A sharp intake of breath, and she forgets to count for a few seconds.

"If you don't start counting again, I'm coming back in," says Lazarus from the other room.

" _Sorry!_ A hundred and six. Hundred and seven. Hundred and eight – "

 _How many weeks since last time I had my period? Six – no, seven at least. More? Completely forgot to keep track since Jane left._

She closes her eyes, right hand barely reaching her cross, and whispers a quick prayer between the numbers she still mumbles out loud.

 _Oh_ God _. Why now?_

This should be a happy moment – she should be excited and overjoyed, eager to take a pregnancy test and confirm what she thinks might be possible, and Jane should be _by her side_. Instead she feels nearly sick with worry and dread, alone, afraid, and _vulnerable_ in a way she hasn't felt since she was a child herself.

"Two hundred and fifty. Two hundred and fifty-one. Two hundred and fifty-two."

"Are you done?" says Lazarus.

" _Just a second!_ "

 _Holy Mary, Mother of God. Three lives to protect now. The highest stakes I've ever played for._

She opens her eyes again, determination renewed.

 _But I won't let him win. I can't._

"I'm done!" she yells, releasing her mother's cross from her numb fingers.

The process to hook her back to the workbench is faster, and as soon as she's back on her stool, Lazarus gives her a pack of wipes to clean her hands. She raises her eyebrows but thanks him, mindful of the fact his moods seem to be improved by politeness, and waits until he gets rid of the bucket outside.

 _Dirt phobia, or just body waste disgust?_

A strange smell clings to his clothes when he walks past her – strong chemical products and rotten meat, a nausea-inducing mix she's pretty sure he didn't have on him before spending the last five minutes in the next room.

 _What the_ hell _is in there?_

"Are your requirements _fulfilled?_ " he asks, a slight sarcastic note in his voice.

She nods, unwilling to remind him of her request for food right now – he probably expects a return on his _investment_ , and the look on his face warns her not to test him further. So she waits for him to talk, ask what he wants – show his hand, so she can decide her next move.

"There's a spirit here," he says after a few seconds of silence. "Right now. Do you see him?"

She hesitates.

"Yes. I think so."

"You _think?_ "

"It's – hard to tell," she says, frowning – trying to channel Jane's attitude the best she can.

But Lazarus seems angry suddenly, and she has no idea why.

"If you _don't_ sense him, then you lied to me, and you're a fraud!" he says, getting up and towering over her.

"I am _not_ a fraud."

Staying calm and staring him down is one of the hardest thing she's ever done in her life. But it seems to work – in a way. He sits back down, crosses his arms on his chest, and glares.

"Really? Then prove it."

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Armour**


	10. Hour 07: Armour - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** The good thing with NaNoWriMo is that, whether you manage to write your daily wordcount or not, the very fact that you have to sit down and write _every day_ forces the brain to come up with self-hacks to keep itself creative. Hence the first time I managed to sleep more than 4 hours at night since the start of the event, I was graced with a new plot bunny upon waking up.  
This is also how last year I got the idea for this very story, by the way. So maybe I'll be writing _that_ one next year. Who knows? (Not quite sure I'm happy about it, to be honest. My bunny folders are getting quite full.)  
Anyway! Enough blabbing around, hope you enjoy the chapter. :-)

* * *

 **Hour 7: Jane**  
 **Armour**

 _This is going nowhere._

Raking his fingers through his hair, his aggravated sigh quickly turning into a yarn, he tries to concentrate again on the dreadfully dull forum conversation – but no such luck. Reading on the properties of pig blood versus chicken blood is so far from his notion of "fun" – never mind "helpful" – that he cannot seem to remember more than a few lines at a time, forcing him to scroll up and read the debate again just to make sense of it. The whole process is painful and tedious, and who knows what Lisbon is going through while he's stuck reading the terrible prose of teenage outcasts with a God complex?

"Almost done?" asks Wylie beside him.

"Uh – about thirty left, I think," he answers. "Nothing suspicious, unless you want to investigate blood bank trafficking."

"What do you mean?"

"Uh, there's someone here who buys expired blood units from a blood bank, it seems."

Wylie frowns.

"That's illegal. We should report it."

"Do you really want to lose time on that now?"

"Uh – no, you're right. I'll just take note of the URL and maybe a few more, uh, let me see – "

The analyst takes the laptop from his hands and balances it on his knees, already engrossed in the very discussion he's eager to get away from. He shrugs.

"Suit yourself. I'll go make more coffee, do you want a cup?"

"Sure, sure," says Wylie, obviously not listening.

He grins briefly.

 _Let the kid have his win_ _– fighting crime will cheer him up, make him more efficient._

A fourth – or is it fifth already, he's losing count – coffee round later, he finds himself in the kitchen again, waiting for the water to boil. He isn't sure yet what he wants to drink – it'll be his sixth cup since Lisbon was abducted, and his stomach is starting to protest. He could probably drink ginger and honey tea, but tiredness is making his whole body heavy and a new influx of caffeine wouldn't go amiss. Opening the cupboard, he stays motionless, staring at the colourful cardboard and tin boxes, until his eyes come to a stop on the wulong tea Lisbon gave him.

Then he realises he's been playing with his wedding ring again.

With shaking hands, he pushes his teacup further back on the countertop – no need to risk breaking it on top of everything else – then clenches his right hand over the left, feeling the thin metal band rolling under his fingers. The kettle sings, letting off steam, but he ignores it until it stops on its own. Tea lost its appeal already.

 _It's just that I'm used to it, that's all._

But the way her face fell when he said it is still burning in his mind, and broke his heart a second time when she later felt the need to apologise for bringing it up.

He turns the small golden band again and again on his finger, feeling the slight indentations and rough patches from use, from ten years of being reckless in a dangerous job – and two more trailing it on sand and rock formations, of letting it soak in the salted water of the ocean. It shines softly under the artificial lighting, gilded glint losing itself in the shadow of his palm, and he wonders just how naked he would feel without it.

And he pulls it up slightly, just a quarter of an inch, just to get a feel for its absence – but something tightens inside, makes him feel vulnerable, and he stops before it even comes close to his knuckle.

"You should pull it off in one go, like a band-aid," says Abbott behind him – startling him so bad he hits his elbow against the countertop.

"Dammit! _Say something_ next time, Dennis!"

Abbott chuckles.

"Sorry about that. You okay?"

"I'm _fine_ ," he answers grumpily.

"Why are you still wearing that thing anyway, Jane?"

He frowns, and instead of an answer, puts the kettle on again. Maybe tea would be a good idea, after all. Maybe he'll even drink Lisbon's wulong, and soak himself in memories of her kisses as he enjoy the clean, light, sweet after-taste of the brew.

"I'm sorry – it's not my business."

Abbott clasps his shoulder, patting it twice before leaving him alone in the kitchen. That same gesture again, he thinks. Gratefulness, comfort, and now apology. He takes the tin can from the cupboard, drops a tea bag in his cup, and does his best to ignore the tightening of his throat as he pours the boiling water over the leaves. His ring catches the light again, brings itself to the forefront of his mind even as he tries to forget about it – and it's been his security blanket for so long, how is he supposed to just _get rid of it_ when his girlfriend, the most important person in his world, was abducted by a serial killer? How is he supposed to hold on with the closest thing he has to a piece of armour removed?

 _I don't want to be wearing it when she comes home._

He swallows the lump in his throat – and as the tea steeps slowly, large leaves unfolding in the water, he pulls on his wedding band again. Just slightly, just an inch, just enough to pass the first knuckle. A slight draft of fresh air cools the uncovered skin, making him even more aware of the importance of the gesture – and Abbott is right, if he doesn't remove it in one go, he'll still be at it by the end of the day.

So closes his eyes and pulls it off.

Just like a band-aid.

Deliberately avoiding the thought of his naked finger, he removes the tea bag from his cup, then brings the hot beverage to his nose. The sweet, floral and slightly milky scent calms his fast breathing, gives him something to hold on – even metaphorically – until the anxiety passes. Reminds him that, wherever Lisbon is, she has it harder than he does right now. And if he can do this small, _so very small_ thing for her right now, maybe he has a right to hope she won't pay the ultimate price for his own stupidity, and _maybe_ he even has a right to hope she'll come home to see his unadorned left hand.

He slips the ring in the inside pocket of his jacket, takes a careful sip of his tea, and walks back to the bullpen. There's still work to do, and even the mind-numbing process of reading over pseudo-religious drivel is better than staying alone in the kitchen, worrying about the very last morsel of grief he should have let the Venezuelan waves wash away years ago.

"Hey," says Wylie when he comes back. "Did you notice where those people buy their supplies?"

"Uh – when they don't buy from crooked blood banks employees, you mean? Mostly they get their blood from slain animals. Chickens, pigs, cows. Farmers sell it, as well as slaughterhouses."

"No, not the blood. I mean, their _supplies_ – candles, books, things like that."

He shrugs.

"As far as I've seen, they use the internet a lot. Some of them visit a local book store called – "

" 'The Grimoire', right?" interrupts Wylie. "It comes up _a lot_ in my research! What if the killer went there too? I checked it out, it's only three miles from where the bodies were buried."

It's thin. It's _so, so_ thin – but it may be a lead, and as the footage picture didn't pan out, it's everything they have.

"You should tell Abbott."

The smile Wylie gives him is bright enough to shadow the sun. He nearly skips to the conference room, high on a rush of enthusiasm – but when he comes back five minutes later, he looks _crushed_.

"What's wrong?"

"Abbott said it's too thin, we don't have time to waste, and that the video footage is a better lead. The one we should be focussing on right now, he said."

"Well, I disagree," he says, frowning. "Wait here."

Abbott and Cho both look exhausted when he knocks at the door – but tiredness is not a reason to _pass up leads_ , especially when they don't yet have anything solid to go on.

"Hey," he says. "Why aren't you following up on the book store?"

Cho rubs the bridge of his nose. Abbott sighs and pushes back his glasses.

"Didn't Wylie tell you what I said?"

"He did," he acknowledges. "But I really want to hear you tell me why you're ignoring a lead – _any_ lead – when we don't have that many to begin with."

"Jane, it's too thin," says Cho. "Do you really believe a guy like the killer who took Lisbon would reveal his interest in human blood in a book store specialised in the occult? A place like that would have even more reasons to remember him, and I bet he'd know that."

"What if he didn't go for the blood, what if he went to ask about diamonds? The travelling gem show where he saw Lisbon isn't a _book fair_ – it was a high end venue attended by professionals jewellers. Someone gave him the information, and before he thought of asking a jeweller, he _must_ have asked around in occult stores."

"Alright, well in that case, why don't you and Wylie go check it out?" says Abbott.

He freezes.

Leaving headquarters is taking the risk not to be there when they find where Lazarus keeps Lisbon – and, judging by Abbott's pointed look, he knows that very well.

 _Is Wylie's lead important enough to risk it?_

He bites his lip.

 _Yes_ , he decides. _It is._

"Okay," he says. "Wylie and I will go."

Cho looks surprised but he nods and gets up, throws a set of keys in his direction.

"Take my car," he says. "It's safer than Wylie's weird little compact thing."

He blinks, then nods, touched. This is Cho's way of telling him they'll wait until he comes back if they can afford it.

"Keep your phone open," adds Abbott as he passes the threshold. "And touch base every half an hour, just in case. I don't want a repeat – we can't be sure Lisbon was the only target."

Wylie's expression moves from defeated to overjoyed before he even hear the news – probably reading it on his face, an impressive feat for someone working with him just a little over a year. As they walk to Cho's car, he realises maybe this is what he was looking for.

Maybe this is the answer – or at least part of the answer – to what he needs to do.

He knew it already when he left, and the little shack he found a few days ago only confirmed what he feels inside – what he's been feeling for a long time now. It's time to leave. But now that the woman he loves is in danger because of something he did _again_ , the longing, the need to do _something else_ with his life crystallised into an absolute certainty.

His days working with the FBI are over.

Whether Lisbon comes back or not – and she _will_ come back, _she will_ – this is his last case.

But as he listens to Wylie's directions and drives them to The Grimoire book store, he realises maybe he doesn't need to take everything with him when he leaves. Maybe Lisbon doesn't _have_ to be the only cop left with parts of his skill set – if Cho didn't lie about that – and with a bit of luck, Wylie's out-of-the-box thinking could prove an asset if he helps hone his mind.

He never took an apprentice before.

 _This could be interesting._

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Test**


	11. Hour 08: Test - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** I'm starting to sound like a broken record but seriously, you have no idea how much I appreciate your reviews. Thank you.

Fair warning: you may have to suspend your disbelief for this chapter, because finding a balance between "clever enough" and "too clever" is very hard when speed writing. I tried to keep Lisbon's psychic act as unspecific and easily explainable as I could, but I have no idea if I succeeded. Guess we'll see how you react. Hope you enjoy it anyway. :-)

* * *

 **Hour 8: Lisbon**  
 **Test**

" _Prove it_ ," repeats Lazarus, when she doesn't answer.

She breathes in deeply, joining her hands together in a pseudo-mystical gesture she saw Jane do a few times.

 _Okay. You can do this. You_ have _to do this._

"This place – has been in your family for a long time," she starts slowly, keeping her eyes on him, reading him as best as she can.

"A spirit tell you that?" asks Lazarus, eyes widening slightly.

" _Shhh_ ," she says, raising a hand – cocking her head to the side, as if listening to someone.

Lazarus straightens but keeps quiet – and she has his full attention now.

 _Hooked_ , whispers Jane in her mind.

 _Good._

"This house, it used to belong to your father. It belongs to you now that he's – _gone?_ "

He flinches nearly imperceptibly, a very slight flare of his nostrils, consolidating her feeling that his father is the spirit he's trying to contact.

 _Keep going_ , says Jane. _You're doing good_.

"You spent a lot of time in this room as a kid," she says slowly, watching him like a hawk, making sure her cold reading is accurate.

He doesn't react, waiting for her to continue. How much can she push it? The last time she read a profiling assessment for a serial killer, the man turned out to be much more of a mastermind than his profile gave him credit for.

 _Then again, McAllister_ did _fit some of the sociopath stereotypes._

How many of them fit Lazarus?

"You didn't have friends as a child, but this place – this _room_ – was your haven. It still holds some of your happiest memories."

" _Who's telling you that?_ " he asks intently.

She keeps silent, but takes a deep breath and joins her hand again. The strong, strange smell she noticed earlier comes back with a vengeance. Some sort of cleaning products – she isn't quite sure what for but it's tugging at a childhood memory – and rotten meat. But _no_ , rotten meat isn't quite right, it's rather –

 _Blood. It smells like spilled blood._

– like one of Red John's crime scenes. One of those dreadful crime scenes with a gutted victim, their blood soaking the sheets and mattress, _and the smell_ , especially in summer –

 _Oh, he does take blood from his victims, doesn't he?_

When she opens her eyes, Lazarus is vibrating with excitation, and she knows to thread carefully – he's like a bomb just waiting to be set off. She shivers – not on purpose at first, but quickly harnessing it to add to her mannerisms. She can nearly hear Jane's soft chuckle in her ear.

"You were close with your father. Not as a child – you had trouble respecting anyone back then. But – "

 _He doesn't have the physical built of a bully. And he likes good manners.  
_

" – as time passed, you learned from him – understood the world better with his help. Since he died – "

She takes another deep breath. They both are on the edge of their seat, she realises – only for different reasons.

 _How did they describe a psychopath's mindset already? Disconnect with reality. That's it. Well it's certainly accurate with this one._

" – the world doesn't seem as real as it used to be. Nothing matters to you anymore, and you feel as if people around you are just going through the motions, like – like _robots_. Robots wearing human skin."

His eyes widen – and he tries to hide it, but he's obviously impressed. There's a headache slowly growing behind her eyes, however, and she knows she won't be able to maintain that level of attention much longer.

 _How the hell does Jane manage to keep it up all the time? God, he must have been a monster as a kid if he had that kind of energy to waste.  
_

She barely stops herself from touching her stomach. There is no telling what he would do to her – _to them_ – if he realised she might be pregnant.

"What do I do for a living?" Lazarus asks suddenly, interrupting her thoughts – and she kicks herself for faltering, for failing to keep her focus on him.

"I – "

 _I have no idea at all. Oh God. What do I do? What do I say?_

She closes her eyes, half-thought words of prayer on her lips. Her breath quickens, bringing in more of the chemical smell, and suddenly the childhood memory that's been nagging her every time she breathes in comes back to her mind.

 _Cockroaches. We used to have them in the house, after mum died. Someone came and used chemicals on the carpets, made Jimmy sick. It's the same smell. That's it!_

"You're an exterminator," she answers, opening her eyes again, looking right at him. "You chose that career path because – "

 _The wipes. He gave me baby wipes after I used the bucket. And this workbench is the only clean thing in the whole room._

" – because you like order and – and cleanliness. Getting rid of pests makes you feel good, makes you feel like you – like you're cleansing the world, one house at a time."

He nods slightly, mouth hanging half open, and she lets out a loud sigh of relief – which quickly turns into a sigh of exhaustion, because _she cannot possibly keep this up any longer_.

"That's – impressive," he says.

She nods her thanks, unable to trust her voice right now.

"But I don't need to know about _me_ ," he adds. "I want contact with another."

She bites her lip, but shakes her head.

"I can't," she says.

He slowly gets up, a storm darkening his expression.

"What do you mean, you _can't?_ "

"I – I need to rest."

"You've been at this less than fifteen minutes!"

"I need to rest!" she repeats, looking up. "And I need food. This is how it works. I can't contact spirits if my body isn't – "

He slams a hand on the workbench and she flinches, muscles stiffening despite her best intentions.

"You better not be kidding about this," he growls, towering over her.

"I'm – I'm _not_ ," she says, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.

She isn't quite sure how well it works. But Lazarus doesn't seem to enjoy her fear, and she's starting to understand this man doesn't enjoy causing pain, doesn't enjoy frightening his victims just for the sake of it. He doesn't enjoy human interaction enough to be a sadist, and will leave her alone as long as she can give him what he wants.

 _But that's the problem, isn't it?_

Lazarus stays unmoving a few seconds more, then walks away, leaving the basement like a whirlwind. She wants to close her eyes and pray, but she doesn't dare.

 _I have to find a way out of here._

She gets up, tests the chains to see how far it will let her move. The answer is unfortunately not very far – she barely gets two feet of wiggle room, despite having a little more space than before she was allowed to use the bucket. Disheartened, she sit down, looks around the room. The windows are small, though not _that_ small – she could probably pass through as long as she kicks the screen off. Maybe she can find a way to unscrew the metal loop holding her chain? It didn't move when she tried earlier, but if she twists and turns _harder_ –

But she can hear Lazarus' footsteps overhead, walking back and forth heavily. If he's planning on bringing her food, he won't be gone for long. Not long enough. There's no time to escape right now.

As long as he isn't in the room, she _must_ find a way to gather more information about him, to bring up more details to feed him before he brands her as a fraud and kills her. But she doesn't have Jane's cold reading skills, and there's only a limited amount of things she can guess based on her surroundings.

This time she does close her eyes, grasps her cross, and prays. But even the words of her prayer escape her, and a frantic anxiety settles in.

 _Stop. STOP. You cannot panic now. There must be something you noticed and forgot. Think!_

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

 _The way he walks – silently, methodical, with an economy of movement rarely seen in normal people. The bear sculpture on the bar behind her. He's probably a hunter – did he learn with his father?_

She bites her lip.

 _Maybe. But that's too thin, I need more. What else?_

Her gaze stops on the workbench.

Clean, yes – clean, but _old_. What if that workbench was around when Lazarus was a child? A memory of Tommy playing with a knife, sculpting his initials _everywhere_ , comes back to her mind.

 _With a bit of luck, at least_ that _part of his childhood was normal._

She pulls on the chain until her left hand is flush against the loop, and her right can roam free under the table. Her sensitive fingers feel the rough wood carefully, taking note of every scratch and indentation, discarding pockmarks and normal wear, until she comes across a peculiar curved line near the end of the leeway allowed by her handcuffs.

 _It's a – a "J" I think. Yes. "J" – another curved line, no wait, circle_ – _is that an "O"? And the next one is – J-O-E. Joe. Joe!_

The handcuffs are nearly cutting the blood flow to her hands, but she keeps trying to reach further in the hope of finding more – until heavy footsteps come closer, the door opens, and she scrambles back into a normal position as Lazarus comes in.

He doesn't say a word – just throws a paper bag at her and watches, silent, as she takes out a dry blueberry muffin. A pang of heartache tightens her throat – _this is Jane's favourite flavour_ – and nearly makes it impossible to swallow the first bite. She eats as slowly as she can, small piece after small piece, while Lazarus paces impatiently behind her like a caged tiger.

When she's done, he crumples the paper bag and throws it in a corner of the room, his whole demeanour fraught with repressed violence. Keeping her breathing in check is the hardest thing she's ever done.

"Do you _finally_ have everything you need?" he barks at her.

She takes a sip of water to conceal the way her heart jumps in her throat, then nods.

 _Sink or swim._

"He's here," she says.

" _He?_ "

Lazarus stops pacing, taken aback, then sits slowly.

" _Who_ is here?"

"Your father. He's here – he wants to talk to you. That's who you want to get in touch with, isn't it?"

The man nods briefly, but there's something crude in his eyes, something shimmering with doubt and mistrust – and she knows she has to convince him as quickly as possible, before he remembers he's the one with the gun.

"He calls you by name," she adds, carefully watching for any minute stirring of his facial muscles. "J – John – no. _Joe_. Isn't it? His little Joe."

She breathes in calmly, slowly blinking, creating the kind of persona that will hopefully allow him to believe. She's surprised to see how quickly his breath mould itself on hers.

"He says – thank you for thinking of him, for – wanting to keep him around, even after all this time. He also says – "

 _Careful. Watch his reactions, talk slowly – backtrack at the earliest sign that something is wrong._

" – he misses the time you spent together – hunting?"

"Fishing," corrects Lazarus.

For a second she fears his reaction to her mishap, but then she notices the strange, _revoltingly_ soft smile on his lips and the far-away expression in his eyes, and she can breathe again. He seems to believe – for now, at least.

"Fishing," she repeats, nodding along. "He says something about – about a catch, when you were young. When you were still a child. The first fish you ever caught. He's saying how proud he was of you that day – and how proud he _still is_ today."

"Daddy," whispers Lazarus.

"He wants to know why you're trying to contact him."

The man doesn't have time to answer – a ringing sound goes off somewhere, and they both freeze.

 _Cell phone._

Someone is calling him, and her hands climbs up to her cross again, clenches hard.

 _Maybe that's my chance._

* * *

 **Tomorrow's prompt: Cold**


	12. Hour 08: Cold - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** I'm sorry, I wasn't well enough to hold on this year – I need to take a mental health break, so next chapter won't come tomorrow. I'll take a small time off, probably at least two or three days to make sure I stave off sleep deprivation, then I'll be back with renewed energy (hopefully).

When I come back, I'll tell you how the schedule for this story will resume. In the meantime, please enjoy this chapter.

* * *

 **Hour 8: Jane**  
 **Cold**

The Grimoire book store is located on a poorly frequented street in the middle of a small commercial area. It takes them two tries to find it – despite the name being written on the door and windows in large Gothic letters, the place is dwarfed between the grocery shop on its left and the local dinner on its right, making it hardly noticeable even when looked for.

"I feel like we're searching for the Leaky Cauldron," chuckles Wylie.

It takes him a while to understand the reference – the last time he read the Harry Potter books, his daughter was still alive to request bedtime stories. By the time he remembers more or less what "Leaky Cauldron" stands for – _wasn't it a place you can't see unless you're looking for it specifically?_ – Wylie has pushed the door open already, and he follows one step removed.

"Welcome," says the woman behind the counter. "Sorry things are a mess, I don't often get early customers. How can I help you?"

"Uh, are you Kelis Weir?" asks Wylie, glancing back with an unsure expression.

He grins – obviously the kid isn't used to the leading role in those operations.

"K' _ee_ 'lis," corrects the woman. "Yes?"

He gets a quick look around. The place isn't as strange or over-the-top as he expected it to be. Most shelves hold books, with only a few crystals here and there – but the counter itself is full of strange knick-knacks, herbs and stones and tarot cards, and even one mortar sculpted in the form of a human skull.

 _No wonder Cho didn't want to go._

Mrs. Weir herself looks more like a business woman than a religious air-head – which makes sense, considering she manages to keep this small place classy and afloat without giving in too much into the _mystique_ of the genre. This isn't a place designed to cater to one-timers looking for adventure into the _exciting taboo lands of magic_. This is a shelter for serious practitioners of minority religions.

"Uh, we're with the FBI," says Wylie. "We'd like to – "

" _Forget it!_ " the woman interrupts. "I'm not collaborating with religious persecutors."

"Uh – "

Wylie looks taken aback, and he's about to step in when the kid blinks and gets his bearings back.

 _Quick thinking._ _Impressive._

"We just want to ask you a few questions," he says.

"You say that, then you start in with your Western morality! Not fooling me twice."

"What do you mean?"

Wylie engaging the woman's full attention is fascinating – it's nearly like observing a younger, less experienced version of himself – and once again he's happy to lean back and watch the back and forth, see how the scene unfold.

"A while back, some guy comes in, starts asking about Santeria. I tell him some friends are performing a ritual. Oh, he shows up – _with ten cops_. Arrests everybody for _animal abuse_."

"Animal abuse?"

"People cut up a million chickens _a day!_ They put testicle-size chunks in a fryer, call it commerce. _My_ friends? Use _one_ – for an ancient and sacred ritual, and _I_ go to jail? Hey, you're just all a bunch of Judaeo-Christian jackbooted _thugs_ , as far as I'm concerned."

He frowns.

"But that's illegal," he says, attracting their attention.

" _It's not illegal!_ " screeches Mrs. Weir. "It's a respectable religious practice by – "

"No," he interrupts "I meant your arrest by Austin PD was illegal – unless the chicken you sacrificed was badly treated beforehand?"

"Of course not!"

"Then they have no grounds to hold you. Supreme Court established in the 90s that forbidding animal sacrifice for the purpose of religious ceremonies was unconstitutional. You and your friends will easily win your trial – you'll probably get a compensation for unlawful arrest, too."

The woman stares in silence, left hand fiddling with the necklace on her throat.

"Should be enough to pay for your lawyer, at least," he shrugs.

He glances at Wylie, who raises his eyebrows, then nods minutely – taking the ball from here.

 _Clever kid._

"What about we do something better?" the young agent says. "If you just _talk to us_ , we could lean on Austin PD to drop all the charges before it goes to court. Maybe get you a compensation, too. Definitively an apology, at the very least."

"Why would they do that?"

"The serial killer case we're working on, the mayor, Austin PD – they want him in custody _fast_. If you help us make the arrest, they'll owe us and we can use that to help you."

"That way you and your friends – your whole Church – would avoid the negative publicity surrounding the trial," he adds when she looks at him.

Kelis crosses her arms, stares them down for a second.

"What do you want to know?"

The young agent's grin is just a little too obvious, but at least the woman doesn't seem to notice – or care.

 _We'll have to train him out of that habit though._

"We're looking for someone who uses blood," says Wylie.

"A lot of people do that. What kind of blood?"

"Human blood."

She uncrosses her arms, looks at them one after the other, and he can read fleeting shock on her features for a brief second.

"Okay, that's different," she says. "Those people do not come _in here_ – I'm a little too _vanilla_ for them."

"Where do they go?"

"The web – mostly. There's a site called 'Blackmore'. Hard-cores, they go there."

He narrows his eyes. The woman's shoulder are too tense.

 _She's hiding something. But what?_

"I've been looking," says Wylie with a frown. "Haven't found that one."

"That's because you have to go deep web," explains Mrs. Weir. "You can't even find the site without the I.P."

"Can you give it to us?"

She presses her lips together, looks at them again.

"You're really gonna talk to Austin PD, you're really gonna help me?"

"Of course," answers Wylie, smiling.

She nods, then smiles back reluctantly.

"Give me a minute," she says, disappearing in the back-store.

Wylie rocks back and forth on his feet for a seconds, stealing self-satisfied glances his way – until he grins and walks to the kid, then clasps his shoulder.

 _Gratefulness, comfort, apologies – and congratulations too_ , chimes a part of his mind.

"You were pretty good there," he says.

The kid beams.

"She's hiding something though," he adds, patting his shoulder twice before walking to his other side.

"Huh? What is she hiding?"

"Not sure yet. But we'll find out. Did you notice the tension in her shoulders?"

"I thought it was because she didn't like us," says Wylie, frowning.

He shakes his head. Before he can comment more on what he saw, the woman comes back with a piece of paper.

"Here. You'll need to register to access the main site, it's mandatory. When they ask for your referent, give the number I wrote below. I understand you have a basic knowledge of Santeria?" she adds, looking at him.

"No. I know a practitioner who got into trouble with the law," he says. "Don't know anything about Santeria itself, out of what everyone knows."

"Which isn't much," she answers, rolling her eyes. "Fine. There's a few control questions on various subjects – pick the ones on Santeria, I'll write you down the answers."

She takes back the paper from Wylie's hand, jots a few more notes – and he walks to the counter, leans on it to read what she's writing, just to see how she'll react to his intrusion. As soon as she's done writing she takes a step back, looks at him with narrowed eyes – as he guessed she would. He swipes the piece of paper and gives it to his colleague, then stares at her until she starts fidgeting.

" _What?_ " she says, visibly uncomfortable.

"Tell me, Kelis – how many people did you give this I.P. address to? Let's say in the last two years?"

"I don't know," she shrugs – mistrustful again. "Why do you ask?"

"Because when we asked earlier about people using human blood, you thought about – _something_. Something specific."

He waits a second, the cocks his head to the side.

" _Someone?_ "

She frowns, takes another step back, and crosses her arms over her chest.

Defensive.

 _Uncooperative._

"Are you a psychic or something?"

Wylie snort behind him.

"No. But I used to pretend being one. And right now, I can see you're hiding something. You had a client a while back, didn't you? Someone who asked about uses of human blood – maybe also rituals?"

The woman frowns and fidgets a bit more, pinching her lips together – but doesn't answer, and he's starting to wonder if he'll be able to make her talk at all. Though she looks like an honest woman, he can't seem to be able to read her with his usual accuracy.

 _Tiredness. Tiredness and – and grief. Dammit._

"Maybe it's because you don't want to get in trouble," interjects Wylie, to his unending relief. "Maybe you're scared? It would be understandable – the guy we're looking for, he's dangerous."

"We could protect you," he says. "If you think you need it."

"Yeah. You could come with us to headquarters, or we could assign a protective detail. But – listen, he got someone we really care about. We want to get her back as soon as possible."

"He got my _girlfriend_ ," he adds – nearly pleading now.

Because if reading the information out of her isn't possible, he'll happily resort to manipulation to get it – even if every word scrape his throat raw with emotions he doesn't want to be feeling right now.

Mrs. Weir pinches her lips a last time, then her shoulders slump slightly and she leans on the counter.

"There was this guy," she says. "Weird one. Thirty-something. White skin, dark hair, hazel eyes. Cheap clothes. He came in about – eighteen months ago maybe? Didn't ask about _blood_ – asked about spirits."

"Spirits?" frowns Wylie.

"Yeah. How to contact them, how to keep them around, that sorts of things. When he asked if there was a way to bind the spirit of a deceased person to its body, I gave him the site's I.P. just to get rid of him. In my line of work, you quickly learn never to argue with people that look a little _extreme_."

"Bind a spirit," he repeats to himself. "Did he give you a name?"

"Uhm, no. But I can probably find you his username – he registered on Blackmore and used my account as referent. Started a creepy conversation about the uses of human blood there."

He nods – and narrows his eyes again.

"What else? There's more."

"You _are_ good," she says raising her eyebrows slightly. "About six months ago, he came in looking for a huge diamond – like, fist-size. I told him I don't deal in that kind of gems, and he'd have more chances asking a jeweller. He got – angry. _Really_ angry. Nearly broke the countertop, then left without a word."

"And that's the last you saw of him?" asks Wylie.

"Yes, thank the Goddess for that."

"Is there a chance you would agree to help us make a facial composite?"

She bites her lip, pouts a little.

"It's been a while," she finally says. "But I can try."

He closes his eyes, a wave of relief crashing over him.

 _We're getting somewhere. Finally._

The sun is still shining as they walk out of the book store. He takes a few deep breaths as Mrs. Weir closes and locks the door, reluctant to get into the car right away. A cold draft makes him shiver, but instead of curling up on himself, he stretches his arms wide and tilts his head backwards. Lisbon is out there somewhere. She might be cold too – and she might not have access to the sun to warm her up.

 _Hold on. We'll find you. I promise_ – _wherever you are, we'll get you out of there soon._

"Oh my God! Your hand!" suddenly says Wylie, staring at him.

"What?"

Self-conscious, he hides his left hand in his pocket – but then he realises the young agent isn't looking at his left naked finger. He's staring at the bite mark on the first knuckle of his right index.

"Wow. That looks _really_ painful. You should get it checked out when we get back."

He blinks, then stares at the swollen red and purple mark – and now that he thinks about it, it _does_ sting a little.

Maybe even more than a little.

"Yeah," he whispers to himself. "Maybe I should."

The last time he ignored painful body inputs, he was in the hospital after his family's murder.

 _But Lisbon isn't dead_.

And now is not the time to become numb again.

* * *

 **Next chapter's prompt: Ocean**


	13. Hour 09: Ocean - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** So. It turns out my mind decided "taking a break" really meant "keep writing, just don't do it as fast". After nearly two weeks at the maddening pace of 2k words/day (actually a lot more than that, because to get 2k I have to write between 2.5 and 4, then wean it down), writing half that amount feels like taking a vacation. So I'll try to keep to that pace for a while, one chapter every other day, and we'll see how it goes. Hope you enjoy this one!

* * *

 **Hour 9: Lisbon**  
 **Ocean**

They stay unmoving, rooted to the spot, locked in a staring contest neither of them is ready to lose.

The phone keeps ringing.

"Stay _quiet_ ," Lazarus says, his glare cold and vicious.

She pretends to nod, but keeps herself ready – this may be her only chance to overpower him and escape. If she has an opening, she won't miss it.

He gets up quickly, pulls the phone out of his pocket and walks around the workbench, turning his back on her.

"Hello?"

His gun is in his waistband, barely three feet away – and he isn't looking at her, all his attention focussed on the phone.

"No ma'am, the job's finished," he says.

She bites her lip.

 _That's the worst idea you ever had, Lisbon_ , whispers Jane in her mind. _Please don't do that_.

But if she doesn't, she may never get the chance again. This isn't a hostage situation. Her life will be on the line whatever she does – and she doesn't believe she can keep him happy with her answers all that long. She doesn't have Jane's skills set, no matter how much she wishes she did, no matter how much she learned from him along the years.

 _I'm a cop. My strength lies in action._

And that strength says she should act _now_.

In a swift move, supporting herself on the table, she throws her legs up and kicks his back.

"No. No, it's – okay. I'll address – _ack!_ "

Lazarus hits the door face first then slides to the ground, dropping the phone in the process. She takes hold of the chain and _pulls hard_ – as hard as she can until the workbench topples over, giving her the additional margin she needs to try and reach his gun.

 _Except –_

Except Lazarus fell _just_ a little too far away and, despite the blood gushing from his nose and the dazed confusion in his eyes, he's still awake – very aware of what's going on. She kicks off a shoe in his direction, aiming for his head, and does her best to reach the gun in his waistband with her toes before he moves. He groans when the heel of her shoe hits his cheek, and again when the tip of her foot kicks his hip, missing the firearm – so close, and _still so far_.

" _Hello? Hello?_ " says the small voice of the woman on the phone.

She stretches as far as she can, feeling cold, hard metal under her thin sock, then kicks again. Her toe accidentally snags the trigger and the gun _finally finally finally_ flies off his waistband, firing a hole in the ground – missing Lazarus' buttock by an inch. Then he starts getting up and she becomes desperate, kicking his ribs, his stomach, everything she can touch because _the damn weapon is out of reach_ and she needs him _down_ before she can get to it.

It's no use.

He rolls over, manages to avoid the worst of her strikes, gets up, and picks up the gun, firing in her direction. She screams when burning pain flashes along the ribs on her left side, and again when he stomps hard on her ankle. She brings back her limbs to her body, curling on herself – cowering in a tight ball to make herself as small a target as possible – and closes her eyes.

 _Hail Mary, full of Grace – I'm sorry, Jane. I thought I could get away. I'm so sorry._

Silence.

Breathing is becoming difficult, both from anxiety and the pain in her side, and _why isn't she dead yet?_

" _Hello? Is anyone there_?" says the woman on the phone.

She opens her eyes.

The first thing she sees is the canon of the gun, barely a few inches from her forehead. She gasps and whimpers, hating herself for that showing of weakness but unable to help it, every breath she takes a piercing ache seizing her body. Forcing herself to raise her eyes, she meets Lazarus' cold, hard expression. Blood is still dripping from his nose and the red bruise on his cheekbone is quickly turning purple. He stares her down a few seconds more then, without moving the gun from her forehead, he walks to the phone and picks it up.

"Sorry ma'am," he says. "I accidentally dropped the phone."

She keeps quiet, shivering from shock, cold, and fear. He wipes his nose and, seeing the blood, holds his sleeve to his nostrils.

"Just the television, ma'am," he adds. "Nothing to worry about. Yes. I'll be right there."

He slips the phone in his pocket, then turns back his attention to her. For a long moment they stay unmoving, staring at each other, the gun between them. She doesn't move. Doesn't make a sound, unable even to remember the words of her childhood prayers. Nearly unable to breathe, because the pain is spreading up and wide inside her body, as fast as the terror is spreading inside her mind.

 _Please. I don't want to die_.

Then he puts the gun back into his waistband and takes a few steps toward the door.

"I'll deal with you when I come back," he says, voice dark and threatening.

Breathing doesn't become easier after he leaves. She can hear him stomping about upstairs, back and forth and again, probably changing his blood-soaked clothes and putting ice on his bruises. Though it feels like a long time, it only takes a few minutes until a door shuts violently somewhere overhead and the rumbling noise of an engine recedes.

She doesn't move.

Her heartbeat pumps wild and scared, a small animal struggling for safety – and for a while she remains a creature of instinct, so strong is the fear's hold that it erases the capacity for conscious thought. Then she becomes aware of the blood slowly leaking from her side, and the idea that she might be bleeding to death without doing anything about it finally spurns her into action.

 _No blood on the ground. That's a good sign, isn't it?_

Panting, she carefully raises her left arm, hoping to assess the damage. Blood has seeped through both blouse and jacket, making it impossible to see how bad it is without pulling on the fabric. Hands shaking, she slowly rolls her clothes up until she sees the wound – and as she twists on herself, she's relieved to notice the bullet embedded in the table behind her.

 _Just a graze. Just a graze, thank God. It'll be fine. Hurts like hell, but the shoulder six years ago was worse._

She takes a few seconds to calm her desperate heartbeat. A slow, shallow breath to gather courage, and with cautious gestures she reaches up, pulls her jacket over her head. Clenching her teeth against the pain, she waits until the peak of the wave is over, then she starts chewing the seams away, pulling and tearing the fabric open to remove it from her arms.

Five minutes later, covered in sweat and out of breath again, she presses cool fabric against the wound on her left side and closes her eyes, allowing herself a few moments of respite.

 _Okay. It's okay, it's fine. Everything is going to be fine._

A look of regret at the water bottle now emptied on the ground – she _really_ could have used some hydration – and she gets back to work. Tying the remnants of her jacket under her blouse is harder than she expected with the handcuffs still on – she thought the hardest part would be _removing_ it – but after some effort, she has a makeshift bandage that should prevent more blood loss and dirt contamination.

Hopefully.

 _I have to get out of here._

She turns on her knees slowly, mindful not to put too much strain on her left side, but sudden, acute agony in her right ankle reminds her that the bullet wound isn't her only injury. Falling back against the workbench, teeth clenching against the pain, she stretches her leg and tries to determine how bad it is. Touching isn't possible with her current position, but as far as she can see, the swelling isn't too bad.

 _And I can still move my toes. That's good, right?_

She bites her lip. If she cannot run, this seriously compromises her escape.

 _One thing at a time. First, get rid of those handcuffs._

The mechanism looks less sophisticated than law enforcement-issued handcuffs, but the metal is cold and heavy on her wrists – not something she can just _pull off_ , she realises. For a moment she lets herself daydream about using the weight of the workbench to break the more fragile parts, but there's no way to do that without breaking her arms at the same time and common sense quickly prevails.

She still has one shoe though.

One shoe with a very sturdy heel.

With a groan, she twists herself again, brings her left leg back up and removes her remaining footwear. Placing her left hand on top of the table's edge, making sure the handcuff is sticking out, she brings down the heel as hard as she can. The shock-wave numbs her hand, but the handcuff doesn't break. So she brings her makeshift weapon up again, then hits the metal a second time. And a third.

The fourth time, she accidentally hits her thumb – the pain is so sudden she drops the shoe on the other side of the workbench.

" _Dammit!_ "

Disheartened, she lets herself fall against the table surface, close to tears. Pain washes over like waves from the ocean – first her side, a tall pulsing motion, then a smaller echo rippling from her ankle, and back to her side in a surge of throbbing heat. The twinges in her thumb are merely a counterpoint – and a part of her mind is starting to wonder if anything she tries has any meaning at all. Maybe she's meant to die here. Maybe she brought this on her own head because she doesn't know when to quit. Maybe she should have followed Jane when he suggested they run to the other side of the world, leaving everything behind, free to enjoy life and each other.

 _And maybe you're getting delirious with pain and exhaustion, and you should shut the hell up. You still have things to live for._

Then her gaze falls on the surface of the table and she notices the nail, its head barely sticking out of the wood beside the bullet hole.

At first she isn't sure why she stays there, transfixed by the small piece of metal a few inches from her nose – it really has nothing remarkable in itself. It's half-painted over, with a crest of rust on one side, and it's not even _holding_ anything.

It just _exists_ – and in the most obnoxious possible way, too.

Then she hears Jane chuckling in her mind, and she opens her eyes wide.

 _Lock-picking. Of course. Why didn't I think of that before?_

Because physical action has always been her go-to, that's why – she isn't a one-trick pony by any means, but why change a method that has been tried and tested multiple times? She rolls her eyes – she can nearly hear Jane's voice again, berating her on police forces' lack of subtlety in general, and teasing her on her own violence in particular. For which she usually answers with a grin and a slap on his shoulder, and sometimes with arguing that there is more to her than brunt force, and if she keeps quarrelling with someone _who isn't actually there_ she'll never get anything done.

So she gets back on her knees, trying to spare both her right ankle and left side, and tries to figure out how to get that nail out of the plank of wood it's been wedged into.

 _Need to find a way to lift it first._

She bites her lip, looks around. Her gaze stops on the shoe she kicked onto Lazarus' cheekbone earlier. It isn't too far away, and maybe she could use it to loosen the nail from its casing –

– _or maybe you could just use your chain_ , whispers Jane. _No need to wiggle around more than you really need to_.

She blinks.

 _Good point._

Looping the chain over the nail's head, she pulls slowly, applying more and more strength until she hears a small creak of wood and the piece of metal lifts from the table board. A few seconds more and the nail pulls out, rolling between three fingers in a shaking hand.

She takes a few shallow breaths, then lifts her left wrist.

 _Okay. Let's try this. How hard can it be?_

* * *

 **Next chapter's prompt: Invisible**


	14. Hour 09: Invisible - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Hey! Sorry it took so long before I wrote this one, the night before last I reached 50,000 words on the "wordcount part" of this story, so I decided to take full a 24h break to celebrate my NaNoWriMo "win". But now the break's over, so it's time to write regularly again. ^^ Hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you so much for your reviews, your comments are always so appreciated.

* * *

 **Hour 9: Jane**  
 **Invisible**

"Do you remember what the man looked like?"

Kelis Weir, sitting with a composite sketch artist in the conference room, squints as if trying to see someone far away. Patiently waiting for her answer, the artist selects a few more pictures.

"I think so. He had short dark hair," she answers after a few seconds. "Pale skin, looked young – maybe in his mid-twenties? I'm not sure."

"That's okay, we'll come back to that. Can you tell me which one of these options remind you more of his eyes?"

The woman's face scrunches up in concentration.

Sitting on his couch on the other side of the bullpen, he tries to soothe his nerves with an umpteenth cup of tea. Wylie is hard at work on his computer, uprooting information from the Blackmore website, Cho and Tork are both on the phone with –

– he has no idea _whom_ with but it looks _important_ , and here he is, loafing around on his couch again, spying on a conversation he isn't supposed to pay attention to. Not that he considers his lips-reading skills to be on par with those of a _spy_.

 _False modesty doesn't become you_ , whispers Lisbon's amused voice in his mind. He grins briefly, trying to ignore the painful pang in his chest.

In the fish-bowl, Mrs. Weir finally shakes her head.

"I'm sorry, it's been over six months. Maybe this one?"

He rolls his eyes.

 _That won't do_ _. Won't do at all._

Knocking on the door, he opens it before either of them gets up – with the glass walls, it's not like they can't see him anyway.

"Can we help you?" says the composite sketch artist dryly – obviously annoyed to be interrupted.

"No, but _I_ can help _you_ ," he answers, slipping inside. "Mrs. Weir, I would like you to close your eyes."

"Close my eyes? I'm supposed to be looking at pictures!"

"Yes, but you're having some trouble remembering what the man looked like specifically, right? You only have a general impression. I know a good exercise that should help with that."

The woman frowns at him – but when he raises his eyebrows in answer, she closes her eyes with a small sigh.

"Good. Now think back on the last time you saw him. You were in your shop... you remember the incense and old books smell floating in the air, and how sunshine lights the room, makes the crystal balls shine just so. The bell over your door rings a little, then he comes in. Do you see it?"

"Uh-huh."

"I want you to get a good look at him. Everything you can picture – the way he frown... the way he moves... the sound of his voice... the way he smells... _everything_. Can you do that for me?"

The woman nods slowly.

"Good. Now, keep that picture in mind, and open your eyes again."

He snaps his fingers – Kelis blinks twice.

"What did you _do_ to me?" she asks, frowning.

"You remember him better now, do you?"

"Y – yeah, I do. But – did you _hypnotise_ me or something?!"

"No," he chuckles. "Guiding your memory back to a single moment is a lot easier than hypnosis. Now ladies, I believe my work here is done. Good luck with the composite sketch," he grins, with a cheeky nod to the confused artist.

"Is _that_ the picture I chose earlier?" he hears Mrs. Weir say as he leaves. "Oh Goddess, I'm so sorry – he didn't look like that _at all!_ More like _this_ one – "

When he comes back to the bullpen, his tea is cold. With a sigh, he stretches his back, ponders for a moment whether he should make himself another, then decides against it. There's only so much tea his bladder can take.

 _Could eat something though_.

"You hungry?" he asks Wylie, looking over his shoulder.

"Uh, _no_ ," the young analyst answers emphatically. "I'm gonna be sick."

" _Self-vivisection_ ," he reads on the screen. "Ah. Yes, that would put out an appetite. Found something?"

"Maybe. Mrs. Weir wasn't sure what his screen name was, turns out she gave the I.P. address to _a lot_ of people in the last two years. So I'm trying to figure out which of those people is our guy by checking out their habits on the site, but it's pretty slow work."

"Didn't she say he started a discussion on harvesting blood?"

"Yeah, she did, but turns out the guy who started the conversation isn't in her list of referees."

He rolls his eyes again. So much for reliable witnesses.

"Can't you do a triangulation? Someone who registered about fifteen to eighteen months ago with Mrs. Weir's reference and who took part in that conversation?"

"I did! Uh, there's six of them. On about twenty people involved in the discussion. And she referred a lot of the others too, but uh, they didn't register in the right time window."

He rubs the bridge of his nose.

" 'Hardcores don't come in here', she said. What on Earth is her criteria for calling people _hardcore?_ " he wonders aloud.

"I know, right?" Wylie chuckles. "Here's the list."

He takes a look. Frowns.

"Okay. Well, our guy takes himself very seriously so I think we can forget right away about 'zombie_ahoy' and 'xXx_dead-kool_xXx'..."

Wylie crosses the names off, laughing.

"It's probably not 'Cerberus' either," he adds, rubbing his chin. "If he's interested in contacting spirits of dead people, he wouldn't want to think about guardians of hell. So that leaves us with..."

"FourDays, Eleazar7 and John1135."

His frown deepens.

"Just how popular is the figure of Lazarus in occult circles?"

" _Very_ ," answers Wylie. "According to the Blackmore website, that is. There's at least four more handles like that just in Mrs. Weir's referee list, and easily two dozen more everywhere else. At first I thought the guy created a trend to hide himself, but you can't change your handle name after registration, so..."

"Could all three be the same person?"

The young analyst shakes his head.

"They all write really differently on the forums, so I don't think so. I mean it's _possible_ , but... Anyway, I'm trying to track them down right now? See if I find something."

He stays silent for a moment.

"Is there some way I can help?" he finally asks.

"I don't think so," Wylie shrugs. "It's just waiting for the systems to run and maybe code a few more things now."

"Okay. Well, if you need anything – "

"I'll ask. Sure."

He nods, then goes back to his couch. Takes a sip from the tea he didn't finish earlier – pulls a face when the cold, bitter beverage touches his tongue. Scratches his hair, then his neck. Rubs his eyes. Rubs his _arms_ when a small shiver creeps up his spine. Rubs his eyes again.

The bite mark on his finger is stinging.

He spends a whole minute examining the purple colouration with clinical interest, before a yawn breaks his concentration and he gets up again to stretch his tired body. Then sits back on the couch, resisting the sudden urge to lie down.

The worn leather is so snug and comfortable.

 _Maybe if I just –_ _just –_

A loud ping from Wylie's computer startles him awake.

"Got something!" says the young analyst, grinning.

"Conference room, two minutes!" calls Cho.

He rubs his eyes, shakes his head and gets up, a vague horrified feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

 _Where did Kelis Weir go? Crap. This_ cannot _happen again._

"The Blackmore site is _huge!_ " says Wylie five minutes later, when they're all seated in the fish-bowl together. "It's the eBay of the deeply weird. There are sections on vampirism, self-vivisection – "

" _Self-vivisection?_ " interrupts Tork, confused.

"Cutting yourself open," says Cho.

"O- _kay_..."

"So. There's a section on blood sorcery – magical things you can do with blood," says Wylie, keeping on with his explanations. "Now, you're supposed to use your own blood, but fifteen months ago there was a discussion on harvesting blood from other people. About twenty people were involved."

"Why would you harvest blood?" asks Tork, confused again.

"Because – you need _a lot_ ," answers Wylie.

"What did you find?" he interrupts, growing impatient. "That guy could be torturing Lisbon right now. Every second counts."

"Yes. Uh – so I tried to get the names of the people involved, but all the screen names they use are all super protected. _However!_ I was able to dig one out. Meet _Cerberus_ – a guy named Alan Saltonstall, a college professor in San Marcos."

"Let's go pick him up," says Cho, getting up.

"Sure," answers Tork.

"I'm coming too," he adds, getting up as well.

They stop and stare. He stares right back.

"You're not coming," says Cho.

He raise an eyebrow.

"Abbott said – "

" _I don't care_ what Abbot says," he interrupts harshly. " _He has Lisbon_. Do you really expect me to stay on the side-line?"

"We're not going after the ki – I _mean_ , the guy who kidnapped her," says Tork. "We're just picking up Saltonstall."

"And you all know we'll lose a lot less time if I go there and we interrogate him in his home," he says, glaring.

"He's right," says Cho, pinching his lips briefly. "We might not even need to bring him here if Jane comes with us."

"Well, _let's go then!_ What are we waiting for?"

Unsurprisingly, the professor lives in a small bungalow removed from the busy part of the city, in a quiet neighbourhood more adapted to young families than bachelor life. He finds himself immediately suspicious when he notices the man's land has a direct access to a small river from its backyard – a place like that is the ideal place to dispose of evidence, whether they be material or organic. From the look on Cho's face, he noticed as well.

"Jane," he says as they get out of the car. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I never do anything stupid," he answers reflexively – then winces.

They both know just _how_ stupid it was to agree to Tork's idea, and to convince Lisbon of playing psychic in his stead.

"You know what I mean. Stay in sight, don't disappear on me. Don't take unnecessary risks. You could still be a target of the guy who took Lisbon, and we don't know if this one is dangerous yet."

He nods without a word. It's not that he agrees per se – but he understands the need to be silent and observe. Be invisible behind the big, burly FBI agents – _for now at least_ – and wait until he has a chance to pounce on the man's weaknesses.

 _Anything to get Lisbon back safe and sound, and as soon as possible._

"Yes?" says a middle-aged man when they knock at the door.

 _No sign of sleepiness, already dressed. Well, if he's a college professor, it makes sense that he would be awake early._

Still, he would have liked to see their target unbalanced by the early hour – it would have made his job easier.

"Mr. Saltonstall? FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about a case we're working on right now. Can we come in?"

The professor's reaction is so extreme to his trained eye he nearly laughs out loud. Pupils blown wide by terror, face turning slack in an effort to contain his shock and fear.

 _This one will be easy pickings_.

 _Don't be too quick to judge_ , whispers Lisbon in his mind. _There's a sneaky look in his eyes_.

He nods to himself as Mr. Saltonstall invites them in. The living room is wide and open, with a large television screen facing a fireplace, cream coloured furniture and large windows that let in a lot of sunlight. He narrows his eyes. This isn't the home of an eccentric college professor with a passing academic interest in the occult. This is somewhere a man like _Bret Stiles_ would feel at ease – all smoke and mirrors and elegant false veneer, appearances for appearances sakes.

"May I ask what this is all about?" the man asks, trying – _and failing_ – to appear debonair.

Cho and Tork take turns explaining about their tracking his screen name from the Blackmore website and its link to their current case. But Saltonstall doesn't seem to be listening to them at all – instead the man's eyes are following his progression through the room, looking more and more worried as he wanders aimlessly around the place. Curiosity licks at his palm – obviously there's something here he doesn't want to be found, but what could it be?

 _Fireplace? No. Hmm... Pictures on the shelf? Closer, but no cigar... ah. There we go.  
_

"Excuse me, what are you doing?" suddenly asks the man, as he starts looking through the media cabinet.

 _Gotcha._

He grins to himself.

"On second thought, I don't want to know. Are you arresting me for something?"

"Just want to ask you some questions," answers Tork in calming tones.

 _Oh no. There won't be any of that._

"Do you have something to feel guilty for, professor?" he says, grinning overtly now.

" _Jane_ ," says Cho with a warning tone.

"This is _outrageous!_ I demand that you leave my home _immediately_ or – or I'll call my lawyers!"

"No, I don't think so," he chuckles, letting his hand wander over the media cabinet, watching the man's reactions.

" _What?_ "

 _This one._

He picks up a DVD case with a bland label – _a cop show, how fitting_ – and waves it over his head.

"No, you'll talk to us, prof. Because if you don't, I'll put this DVD into the player right there and we'll see what you're all about."

"This is – this is _illegal!_ You can't do that!"

"Really?"

He raises his eyebrows, walks slowly to the television screen – counts the seconds until the professor deflates, pale and sweating, and lets himself fall on the nearby couch.

"Fine," he says, barely loud enough to be heard. " _Fine._ What do you want to know?"

* * *

 **Next chapter's prompt: Head Rush**


	15. Hour 10: Head Rush - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Welcome to the midpoint chapter! From this point onward, if I do my job right, action should pick up.

On another note, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to **Mayzee** , **Sunny** , **Half Agony and Hope** , **Sabine D**., **Bklyn** (who I think is **Brooklyn79** here? not sure), **BaarsMieke** , **ObsessedwithMentalist** (some of those people don't even read this, haha) and to all those of you who say Lisbon's lingerie in 6.16 "Violets" is red.

Because it's _so so so_ pink. Obviously. x)

* * *

 **Hour 10: Lisbon**  
 **Head Rush**

" _Dammit_ , Jane!" she yells, banging her fist against the table when the nail slips off her hands once more. "Why didn't you ever teach me how to pick locks?"

 _Well, you never asked_ , points Jane's voice in her mind.

"Oh, shut up," she mutters. "You taught Annie. You could have taught me too."

 _You yelled at me for it! Besides, I taught her how to pick_ pockets _, not locks._

"As if it was _better_."

 _See?_

She rolls her eyes, then sighs. This is going nowhere – picking locks is a lot harder than she thought it would be and, despite her best efforts, she only succeeded in scratching the skin on the back of her hand.

 _Time to try something else._

She slips the nail in her pocket – it could still be useful – and takes as deep a breath as she dares. The pain in her side turned from screeching agony to glowing embers earlier, easier to ignore and breathe through but allowing the throbbing in her ankle to make itself more noticeable. When she chances a glance downward, she's shocked to see how the swelling makes it looks twice as thick as usual.

 _Broken. Broken, or really badly sprained. Crap._

Pulling herself up, she leans against the side of the flipped table and slowly puts her left foot down. She winces – then puts a bit more weight anyway.

 _Painful, but I can do it. It'll slow me down, but I can run if I need to. Just_ _– not for long._

 _But you shouldn't_ , whispers Jane in her mind. _Pain is a reliable indicator that something is wrong with your body. You shouldn't keep doing what causes more of it_.

She ignores him – it's not as if she has a _choice_ – and turns her attention to the chains holding her. Making sure she can run won't help if she doesn't escape first.

The handcuffs on her wrists aren't those issued by the FBI, but they look sturdy – _too_ sturdy. The chain itself is made of seamless loops of some sort of hard metal, probably steel. There's nothing on its length to make her think she could break it – and as she examines it, her eyes naturally fall on the ring screwed into the wood again. This time she doesn't need Jane's voice in her head to tell her how significant it is.

 _That's the weakness. That's what I need to work on._

A peek over the edge of the table reveals nothing – no end of a screw sticking out of the wood, no device to hold anything, nothing at all. Which is good – it means the loop is nothing but a metal ring held by the pressure exerted by wood and careful masonry.

Hopefully.

Putting back the workbench in a normal position appears impossible – with her injuries sapping half her normal strength and the handcuffs still on, she has no way to flip it back upright. Stomping on the loop is impossible as well because of the pain in her ankle. She tries for a while to unscrew it with one hand, then two, but the wood appears bloated with humidity and the _stupid_ piece of metal is stuck.

 _Dammit! It's like trying to open a honey jar without hitting the bottom first. And with wet hands._ _  
_

 _You find the right lever, agent, you can move the world_ , whispers Bertram in her mind.

She cringes.

" _No!_ No way. That's enough, I don't need more people inviting themselves in my mind right now!" she groans aloud, before cringing a second time – talking, answering, _yelling_ to herself really isn't the best way to deal with a brain overtaxed by fear and endorphins.

 _He's right though_ , chuckles Jane.

 _About moving the world?!_

No – she only needs to move a metallic ring. What then? The right lever?

 _A lever. Of course!_

She sinks back – careful, _careful_ – to her knees, examines how the chain passes into the ring. A ferocious grin stretches her lips when she realises her plan _could_ work, if she manages to pull it off.

 _Making puns to yourself now?_ chuckles Jane.

 _Oh, shush you._

Smiling now, she twists the chain around the loop, then pulls up. Nothing. Undeterred, she tries again – and again, again, _again_ until finally she feels something give in. When she looks down, the loop is now twisted diagonally from the way it started.

" _Yes!_ "

 _You go, girl_ , whispers Jane again, and she can see him pumping his fist in the air with that cheeky smirk of his. And she doesn't care that the only day she remembers him saying, doing that, it was in a mocking fashion – because _she's getting somewhere_ , it's _working_ , she'll be able to escape _soon_.

 _One more turn... okay. One more._

It's getting easier now – the hardest thing becomes trying to untangle her chain as she unscrews the loop. But it turns out she doesn't need to – as she gives a tentative pull, then a very firm one when she feels the ring wiggle, the whole thing slides out and she falls back, hitting the door before she manages to regain her balance. She stays on the ground for a while, dazed, trying to breathe through the red veil of pain pulsing from her side.

Then she sits up, fending off dizziness – pain is playing havoc on her blood pressure – and grins so wide her cheeks hurt.

 _It worked!_

Her hands are still linked together with a chain, but at least she isn't trapped anymore. She can find a way to get out, break the handcuffs or the chain – maybe even find a spare key somewhere in Lazarus' things. Something. _Anything_. She never enjoyed freedom – even _relative_ freedom – more.

 _Don't lose focus_ , whispers Jane. _You're not out of trouble yet_.

She clamps down on the urge to stick out her tongue at him – _he's not even there!_ – and slowly, pulling herself up with the door handle, she gets back on her feet. Her left ankle is still swollen and painful, jolts of agony bursting through her leg every step she takes, but she manages to limp to the closest window near the bar –

– only to discover it strengthened with wire. The screen she thought was _inside_ is actually going _through_ the glass, something she only ever saw in prisons and mental wards in the past.

 _Crap. He_ planned _this. What do I do now?_

For a second, the half full bottles on the countertop look very tempting – both to drink and to use as a weapon. But she knows both ideas are ridiculous. She's not in a position to get drunk of course, and waiting for Lazarus to come back is taking the risk to wait for a _very long time_. He's unpredictable – he could come back in the next fifteen minutes or in two days, and that is too long to stay poised behind a door in the hope to get a jump on him. A plan that has so little chances of working it's not even worth mentioning.

 _But since we're talking about a door..._

She glances at the second door, the one on her left – the one Lazarus went into while she was relieving herself. The one he came back from stinking of spilled blood and bug-killing chemicals. The one, considering those smells, he certainly didn't allow anyone in other than himself even if he hired help to install those glass panels.

 _Maybe there's a window in there I can escape from._

She walks slowly across the room, making a small stop near the flipped workbench to take her breath before going on, and turns the doorknob. It doesn't move. She rolls her eyes.

 _Locked, of course._

 _It would have been way too easy_ , chuckles Jane.

 _I_ like _easy!_

 _No you don't._

 _Well guess what? This time I'd love it!_

 _Come on. Life is hard, Lisbon. Suck it up!_

She rolls her eyes again. Trust her mind to be as annoying as Jane knows how to be when arguing with herself.

Jumping on her good leg, she takes aim and hits her right shoulder against the door. The manoeuvre is uneasy and painful, enough that she doesn't try a second time. Leaning against the door, she jiggles the handle again, hoping against all odds to break in without any more hassle.

No such luck.

 _Tommy could open doors with a credit card when we were kids. How did he do that again?_

She closes her eyes, trying to remember. The foggy picture of a teen with rambunctious energy and a mop of black hair wiggling a stolen card between the door and the frame comes to her mind.

 _Okay. Well_ _– let's try to find something similar to a card then._

When she turns and lets her gaze wander around the room, the first thing she sees isn't anything resembling a credit card.

It's the amount of blood she left _everywhere_.

There's a congealing puddle in the middle of the place, near the workbench – the surface of which is covered in red hand prints. There are sock footprints on the ground going from one door to the other, and droplets near the bar. Shocked, she looks down to her side, brushes against the wound under her blouse – her makeshift bandage seems more or less dry, as far as she can figure by touch alone anyway.

 _It's less impressive than it looks_ , whispers Jane again. _Don't worry about it. Just find yourself a flat, bendable object and get out of here._

 _What if Lazarus figures out I've broken into his secret room?_

 _He's a serial killer, who cares about protecting his privacy!_

She bites her lip.

 _Lisbon. Think about it. Do you really intend to stay around to find out?_

 _Point taken._

Where would someone like him hide a credit card? She looks toward the book shelves – there's something like a compartment there, one that could hold what she's looking for. She limps toward it, then wipes her hands against her trousers before pushing against the wooden flap. It falls down, revealing correspondence covered in dust, old telephone directories, and what vaguely looks like a printer from the stone age. Curious, she picks up the first envelope, opens it – and rolls her eyes.

 _Great. Failing a credit card, find a credit card_ bill _instead. Shame it won't be as helpful to open that damn door_.

 _You should at least read and memorise a few information_ , whispers Jane's voice. _Just in case_.

Nodding to herself, she completely unfolds the piece of paper. The first thing she notice is, of course, the name it's addressed to.

 _Joseph Keller. Joe. At least I got that right._

Then she notices the date written on top and frowns. In the early 2000s, Lazarus would have been too young to hold a credit card – especially with those kinds of charges.

 _Medical supply? A chiropractor? Vitamins? Those aren't the purchases of a teenager, they're from a grown man. A sickly one at that._

 _Wouldn't be the first time a man named his son after him_ , Jane points out. _Keep the name of that doctor in mind_ , _will you?_

 _Hannigan. Had a co-worker with that name. Should be easy to remember._

She bites her lip again, then folds the bill and puts it back into the envelope. Mindful of the pink smudges of blood she left on the paper, she hides it under the pile before closing the compartment. A small dizzy spell makes the room spin around her as she turns around and leans against the bookshelf for a moment, wondering again just _how much_ blood she lost earlier.

 _It doesn't have to be blood loss. Pregnant women often have dizzy spells and head rushes_ , whispers Jane, and she nearly breaks down in tears.

It's not that she _forgot_ she might be pregnant, it's just – _it's just_ –

 _They, uh – they're also often emotionally unstable because of the hormonal changes in their bodies_ , he adds, and she can just picture the cheeky grin on his face, the happy sparkle in his eyes.

"Shut up!" she says out loud, half crying, half laughing now.

But it reminds her to keep going – because she doesn't want to just _imagine_ Jane's expression as he says those things to her. She wants to _see_ it. So she sniffs and wipes her cheeks, then looks around the room again. And this time her gaze falls on the disk player a few feet away, with its vintage vinyl record collection.

 _I could use that. Shame though. It's good jazz_.

 _Yes, how shameful that a serial killer enjoys jazz_ , chuckles Jane.

 _No! I mean, it's a shame because I'll probably have to break a few rec – and will you_ stop _with the running commentary? I don't have to justify my thoughts to myself!_

But when Jane's rare, so rare laughter – the one made of exclamations and nearly silent wheezing – echoes in her mind, she smiles ruefully and shakes her head. She doesn't really want him to leave her alone, even if she knows this silent communication is teetering the brink of hallucinations and insanity.

She needs him too much.

 _It's endorphins. Just endorphins. And maybe pregnancy hormones._ If _I'm pregnant. Big 'if'._

She picks up a record at random and limps back to the door, where she inserts it between door and frame. Then she pushes and pulls and pushes again. The first record splinters, a small piece jabbing itself into the meat of her smallest finger, but she brushes it away and tries again. Her second try is more successful – one more push and the door opens, releasing a miasma of putrid smell that makes her gag.

 _What the hell?_

* * *

 **Next chapter's prompt: Mislead**


	16. Hour 10: Mislead - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** I am so sorry for the time it took to get this one out. Seriously I have no excuse, and just hope you'll enjoy the read. See you on the next one, and happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it.

* * *

 **Hour 10: Jane**  
 **Mislead**

"Just a list of names?" repeats the professor. "That's all you want?"

Saltonstall glances from one agent to the next, clearly taken aback. He stays silent. After the man broke down and agreed to talk, he let Cho and Tork ask their questions – content to loom over him like a hawk, waving the tape now and then to add pressure, to make sure the temptation to lie doesn't become too strong. But his heart isn't really in it. Hearing his colleagues talk about black magic, sexual deviance, and uses of human blood reminds him painfully of the danger Lisbon is currently facing.

 _It's been ten hours already._

Even Red John didn't let him wait that long before taunting him with a phone call, and that small fact makes it really obvious that _this isn't about him_.

Only _because_ of him.

"I – I think I remember them all. I could, uh – I could write it down. Do you people have a piece of pa – "

"No," he interrupts.

"No?" blinks Saltonstall.

"No. You're a teacher, someone like you wouldn't rely on memory alone. You have a list somewhere," he says, frowning. "You have it – _ah_ , of course. On your computer."

"No, I – I _don't!_ "

"You will print it for us. _Now_ ," says Cho, his tone making it obvious there will be no further discussion.

The professor closes his eyes in defeat.

"You guys _will_ hear about my lawyers. Coming here, in my home, and _blackmailing_ me – "

The muttering continues as the man opens his computer but he doesn't pay him any attention, lost again in dreadful daydreams and a sea of worry. His fingers find themselves feeling the ring in the inside pocket of his jacket, fiddling with it even through the thick fabric, and the strange glances Tork is shooting him now and then aren't helping settle his restlessness.

The printer's sudden chirps and splutters make him jump, and for a moment he watches as the machine prints a sheet covered with black script. When it starts on the second page, he narrows his eyes.

"Just _how many_ names do you have there? One hundred? Two?"

"I talk with a lot of people," answers Saltonstall frostily.

" _All of them_ from the Blackmore site?"

"Yes! All of them! My interests, such as they are – "

He stops listening – grabs the sheet of paper, gets a look.

"Those don't include screen names. Who's this 'Martin Chalk' ?"

"A – a businessman from San Antonio, I think," hesitates the man, rubbing his chin. "His handle is, uh – "

 _If that idiot takes any more time to answer, I'll make an airplane with his stupid list!_

" – something ridiculous like – like 'freak ahoy' or 'zombie cool' or something. _I don't know!_ We don't call each other by our usernames!"

 _Did he just –_

He resists the urge to do a double take.

 _– of course he did._

"You're lying," he says.

"I am _not!_ "

"Why are you trying to cover _usernames_ , huh? Are you afraid perhaps those people can give us more information about _yours?_ "

" _Stop trying to intimidate me!_ I – I just don't do well under pressure!"

He tears the sheet in half, glowering, and marches on him. Saltonstall cowers, but Cho interposes himself between them just before he reaches the professor. He glares. His friend's expression doesn't change – and neither does he move.

"I don't think you understand _how important_ this is to me," he snarls over Cho's arm. "I'm not interested in any of your perversions – someone I care about is in danger and you hold the information we need to get her back! See that disk?"

He throws it behind his back, uncaring where it lands.

"I don't need it – _as long as you tell me what I need to know_."

He takes a deep breath. Cho is still in his path, eyeing him with a mistrustful expression.

"But if you keep trying to play us, I will expose _everything_ – to _everyone_ – and I won't need your disk to do that either," he adds, lowering his voice to a threatening growl.

"You can't do that!" wails Saltonstall.

"Really? _Just watch me_."

" _Dude_. That guy got exonerated for murder," says Tork, pointing with his thumb in his direction. "I'd be you, I'd give him what he wants."

Saltonstall looks like he's about to go into shock. He raises his eyebrows at Tork, who shrug slightly.

 _Not exactly what I was going for, but I guess it can't hurt._

" _Listen_ ," he says, side-stepping Cho before he can stop him. "I have three screen names here. Give me all you have on _those_ , and we let you go."

The man licks his lips.

"Just three?" he asks faintly. "Which ones?"

" 'FourDays', 'Eleazar7', and 'John1135'."

Saltonstall pales – and for a second he looks like he's about to refuse, but then he nods, breaks eye contact, and turns his attention back to the computer. Soon enough, the printer spits out another sheet of paper. Cho picks it up.

"I'll go call Wylie," he says, stepping outside.

The following silence is awkward. Tork looks disgusted – from his place behind the professor, he obviously was in the front row for whatever little show of horrors Saltonstall keeps there. Saltonstall himself doesn't seem as worried as he did just minutes before – probably because his _illegal_ kinky stuff didn't show up before Tork's watchful eye. For a moment he gets the urge to snoop some more, just because that man is _vermin_ and deserves to be made as uneasy as possible – but truth is, he just doesn't care _enough_ to fully enjoy his embarrassment.

Instead he palms his ring again, taking it out from his pocket and turning it between his fingers, the way he always do when he's getting nervous – except it's usually sitting on his left hand when he does, and playing with it when it's in the middle of his palm isn't as effective to settle his growing anxiety.

The urge to put it back is strong.

 _Too strong._

"Did one of those three people seem off to you?" he asks on a whim, slipping back the ring in his pocket.

" _Off?_ " stutters Saltonstall. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, his demeanour a studied mask of nonchalance.

"Creepy. Scary. Unbalanced. Not quite your usual occult fanatic. _Off_."

The professor hesitates. He waits – and his sudden patience seems even more upsetting to the man than his previous aggressiveness, which nearly makes him laugh out loud.

"I'm not sure," finally says Saltonstall, chewing on his lips. "You have to understand, most people on the Blackmore website are – a little strange."

"No kidding," mutters Tork.

"But this guy, 'FourDays', he – he was stranger than the others."

"Stranger _how_ exactly?"

"Well, he was obsessed with blood. Didn't seem interested in vampirism or anything of the sort, he just had _something_ with blood. Claimed to use it for everything. Mostly rituals, but – sexual things, too. And when we met, he – well. I'm not _easily_ scared, but _he_ – yes. He scared me."

He frowns, rubs his chin. The man doesn't appear to be lying this time around – he has all of the signs of a scared, cornered rabbit, none of a snake about to strike – but there's a sense of _wrongness_ coming from his words.

"You're following us to headquarters," interrupts Cho, coming back in before he can figure it out.

The professor is out of his seat in a second.

" _What?_ No, I am most definitively _not!_ "

"You can come with us quietly or we can arrest you," says Tork.

" _But_ – you guys _said – !_ "

"Our witness is finished with the composite sketch. We need you to identify the man. You're coming with us."

Saltonstall keeps protesting, but he doesn't hear him anymore – the only thing that remains is the deep pounding of relief in his veins. They're so close. So close to getting a name. So close to getting a location.

 _So close to getting Lisbon back._

"Jane, you sit up front," says Cho as they reach the car.

Tork takes one look at them, then climbs in beside the professor and shuts the door. He smirks.

"Don't want me beside your suspect?"

"That's right."

"Come _on_. You don't really believe I would _hurt_ him, do you?"

"No," deadpans Cho. "What I believe is you would do anything to antagonise the guy, and we need him cooperative. Sit up front."

He chuckles.

 _Well, he isn't wrong._

The ride back is mostly peaceful. His fingers touch the inside pocket of his jacket twice – but Cho keeps glancing at him, forcing his mind back on his actions and his hands back down. When they park in front of the building, he doesn't wait for them and rushes upstairs instead, only stopping when he reaches Wylie's desk.

"I heard we got a composite sketch. Can I see it?"

"Sure! Here."

The young analyst picks up a sheet on his desk and holds it up. He takes it with slightly shaking hands and, eyes glued to the face on the piece of paper, walks to his couch.

 _So this is him. This is the man who took Lisbon._

His first thought is that Lazarus looks nothing like Red John – he looks like a _kid_. A kid with a thousand yard stare, short cropped hair, and nothing specific enough to tell him apart from a million other young men in Austin. No scar. No mole. No tattoo. No strange haircut.

No _nothing_.

"Have you looked into the names Saltonstall gave us already?" he asks, memorising Lazarus' facial features.

"Oh yeah, about that," Wylie says, turning his chair toward him. "One of the names don't match."

He blinks, then narrows his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, this one, uh – Riley Mitchell? It's one of the analysts working organised crimes downstairs. I checked, 'cause Riley was with me at Quantico so I wanted to make sure, you know?"

He nods, fists clenching the fabric of his jacket.

"Well, turns out Organised Crime was on Blackmore's trail for a while – Riley was one of their undercover agent but got busted by someone there. So apparently after that, there was a huge clean-up by the Blackmore admins and all the screen names they used downstairs got kick-banned. When I asked around, they got _really_ interested in Saltonstall. Think maybe he's their whistle-blower."

"Okay. So we're down one name. Why is that a problem?"

Wylie points the list they made earlier.

"Riley told me none of the handles we're looking for were used by our guys. Cho said you asked specifically for those three, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, then it means we lack the identity of, uh – 'FourDays' I think."

He takes a deep breath. Something cold settles in his stomach.

"Couldn't your friend downstairs be interested in the occult and use 'FourDays' as his personal screen name? He could still be the guy we're looking for."

"Uh, no."

"Why not? Wouldn't be the first time law enforcement breeds a dirt bag."

"Well, for starters, Riley's a girl."

 _He played me. I_ knew _there was something wrong, and he_ still _played me. Did he even meet the guy?  
_

Teeth clenching, he forces himself to take another deep breath and to calm down – as much as possible anyway.

 _Yes, he did. He wasn't lying about that – he really met him and got spooked. He just didn't give us his real information_.

"Alright. I'll take care of this. Keep looking into the two other names, Wylie – you're doing a great job."

Wylie beams at him, but before he can smile back, his attention is redirected at Cho and Tork bringing Saltonstall to an interrogation room. For a moment, he considers jumping on the man and breaking his nose – as so many suspects did to him before – but then again, _choosing_ to act impulsively makes it by definition deliberate, and _no way_ is he going to give Saltonstall an easy out.

Besides, as much as he wants to _hurt_ the man, violence is Lisbon's tool to handle – and _he_ has better tricks in his bag.

 _What's that supposed to mean?_ whispers Lisbon in his mind – and he can perfectly picture the endearing affront on her lovely features.

He smiles, baring his teeth.

 _I'll be happy to tell you as soon as we get you back._

"Abbott," he says, barging in his office. "We need a search warrant for this guy's house."

Abbott removes his glasses and rubs his eyes.

"Which guy? And – _wait wait wait_. _You_ are asking _me_ to get a search warrant? Who are you, and what have you done with Patrick Jane?"

"Oh, ha _ha_. Very funny. The guy Cho and Tork just brought in. Saltonstall? He's in the interrogation room right now."

"O- _kay_. And – _why_ do I need to do that? Last I heard he was brought in to help with the investigation, not in cuffs on felony charges."

He throws his arms in the air.

 _This is too slow!_

"I don't know! _Find something_ – obstruction of justice would probably work. _Listen_ , we _need_ to search his place!"

Abbott stares but doesn't move, and he's just about to forget about legality when the man gets up and takes a form out of his drawer.

"Alright. On what grounds can I convince the judge?"

" _Thank you._ Uuuh – he lied about the information he has on one of our suspects, he has questionable associations with a website bordering on illegality, _and_ he's been very unhelpful so far in our investigation," he answers, ticking the points on his fingers. "Plus he got very nervous when we were there, and I'm fairly confident we _will_ find something if we get a warrant. Organised Crime will want to cut a deal with him – "

"Wait. _What_ does Organised Crime has to do with this?"

" – but if _we_ find the information, it'll get us commendations, right? That's how it works in this – this _cop-business_ of yours? And you – you'll need as many of those as you can get for D.C., won't you?"

"Jane."

" _What?_ "

"Is this a personal vendetta?"

He bites his lip. Abbott glares.

"I _swear_ to you, the guy is crooked," he answers after a beat. "Does it really matter why I want to do this? Just _trust_ me! Aren't you all for – for justice, and – _stuff?_ "

Silence.

"Lisbon has been missing for _ten hours_ and our only lead _is a compulsive liar!_ No matter how you look at this, _we_ _need_ _something_ to lean on him!"

A beat, then Abbott sighs heavily – the sound he makes is just like a deflating balloon, he thinks distractedly.

"A liar, you say?"

"Yeah. The information we're looking for is probably on his computer."

The man nods, jots a few words on the form, then takes out his phone.

"Half an hour," he says after hanging up. "I'll fax the request, Judge Fairchild already agreed to sign it."

"Thank you. And, uh – I want to be part of the team that conducts the search."

"Of course you do."

He grins fierce and joyless.

"I promise you. You won't regret this."

"I already do," sighs Abbott.

* * *

 **Next chapter's prompt: Walls**


	17. Hour 11: Walls - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** I'm so so so sorry for the delay in posting this new chapter. It wasn't supposed to come so late, but life (and a one-shot, but mostly life) got in the way. I cannot make any promise as to the frequency of the next updates as I'm back to working on Kindred at the same time, but I can promise you we'll see this story to its end. Thank you for your continued support, it means a lot to me.

 **Warnings:** Canon body horror and un-canon disturbing allusions. Is this enough to justify a M rating? I'm not sure, you tell me.

* * *

 **Hour 11: Lisbon**  
 **Walls**

The smell coming from behind the door is revolting. She gags and retches several times in a row, losing it again every time she catches a new whiff of spilled blood and chemicals. When she gets back in control of her stomach, the world is spinning around her and she catches herself against the door frame, clenching at the wood with whitened knuckles.

 _What the hell is that?_

 _Morning sickness, probably?_ chuckles Jane in her mind.

 _It's not morning._

 _You do remember 'morning sickness' is liable to happen any time of the day, right?_

She rolls her eyes.

"Jane, a little focus please? I meant this – this _stench_. It's horrible! What is it?"

She waits a few seconds for an answer that doesn't come, and nearly looks for him behind her shoulder – then she remembers _he isn't actually there_. Eyes closed, forehead against the wooden pane, she holds her breath until her emotions are back in check. When she's calm again, she wipes her mouth, spits a few more times, and tries breathing through the fabric of her sleeve.

 _Better. Not perfect, but better._

One hand on the wall, the other holding fabric over her nose, she limps through the door opening. The small space is less a room and more a cavity. It holds an old gas heater, a few shelves displaying cans and canteens of pests repellent, and not much else. On the right, beside the heater, there's an old, tattered blanket held to the wall with pins – a sight she remembers well from her own childhood, when her father decided there needed to be divisions between her brother's beds for the sake of everyone's sanity – and she has no doubt this is where the smell comes from.

 _At least the part that isn't due to the chemicals on those shelves._

She holds her breath, takes a small step – looks inside.

By this point, the desiccated corpse grinning back at her isn't really a surprise. She expected it, she tells herself as her stomach recoils again. What else could cause that kind of pestilence? It's not even the first time she's been sick on a crime scene – she'll never forget about that guy who hid the body of his father-in-law in the unplugged freezer of a co-worker's garage.

 _Except_ this _body is at least a year, maybe two years old, and wasn't kept in an air-tight container_ , whispers Jane in her mind. _It shouldn't be smelling anymore – should be dry like old leather_.

 _Right. So why isn't it?_

She pushes away the sheet hanging from the wall, takes an hesitant step toward the corpse. The dark markings on the blanket – the ones she originally attributed to decomposition – swim into focus.

 _Is that blood?_

 _Well, that would explain the smell_ , says Jane, and she can nearly see him shrug. _We already know Lazarus was taking blood from his victims. If he was pouring it over that poor fellow's corpse..._

 _... humidity from the blood would be enough to keep the decomposition process somewhat active, at least when the_ _– bloodbath, literally – is fresh. Not to mention he might have diluted the blood with something to keep it from coagulating between the crime scenes and this place. Yeah._

She crinkles her nose.

 _Ew._

Her heart clenches a second time at the sound of Jane's phantom chuckle. She allows herself two breaths of longing, carefully taken through her sleeve, then pushes the feeling away. She doesn't have time to daydream or despair – what she needs is to get herself home.

A tiny window shines a cold blue light over the room. She limps to it slowly, eyes narrowed.

"D'you think I could pass in that opening?" she mutters, looking up.

 _How's your gunshot wound?_ answers Jane's voice.

She presses lightly on her side and hisses.

 _Not good. But there isn't any other way._

 _The window in the other room is larger_ , offers Jane.

 _There's metal wire through the glass. I won't be able to break it._

 _Alright. But never mind passing through the opening, how do you even expect to climb up there?_

She bites her lip, looks around the room. The bed is too tall and heavy to pull in her condition – and even if she could get over her disgust of the body rotting on its sheets, something she doesn't expect to happen any time soon, standing on a soft surface with a bad ankle is a recipe for disaster.

 _Unless you're necrophiliac_ , grins Jane.

 _God, you're disgusting._

 _Well – technically speaking,_ you _are. Seeing as I'm, you know. Not actually here._

 _Shut up!_

Then she notices the small drawer stuck between wall and bed, and the wooden box sitting on top of it.

For a moment she wonders if she shouldn't use this opportunity to snoop in, and she can nearly hear Jane egging her on with his usual enthusiasm. But she needs to think rationally about this – her priority is to escape, not to uncover whatever deep dark secret Lazarus hides in his basement.

 _As if that corpse wasn't enough of a deep dark secret anyway. Urk._

 _Whose body it is, do you think ?_ asks Jane in her mind.

 _I don't know! I don't care!_

 _So you keep saying, but clearly some part of you is wondering if we're having this conversation._

"You're insufferable," she mutters, dragging herself to the drawer, careful not to put too much weight on her ankle.

The jostling around awakens her nausea and she stops, closes her eyes tightly, takes deep breaths through as many layers of clothing as she can stuff over her nose.

 _It's going to be okay, Lisbon_ , whispers Jane in comforting tones.

 _You don't know that!_

 _But I know_ you _. One last effort and you'll be out of here._

She opens her eyes. The corpse is still grinning at her. She clenches her teeth and limps the last steps to the drawer, then tries pulling on the small wooden furniture.

It doesn't move.

"Oh, _come on!_ Why are you stuck? Move already!"

 _Pull harder_ , whispers Jane in her mind.

 _I'm trying!_

 _Not hard enough. Give it your all._

She rolls her eyes, gives another pull. A small ripping sound comes from behind it, nearly covered by the handcuffs chain hitting the wood.

 _Is it glued to the wall? Sounds like paper coming off._

 _Well, it's obviously been there for a long time. Humidity must have fused it to_ _– something there. Maybe paint?  
_

She can see him grin and shrug, clear as day.

"Well," she groans, pulling again. "I'm not going to let a – _stupid_ – bedside – _table_ – get one – _over_ – damn it! _Move!_ "

Frustration achieves what her muscles couldn't, and the small piece of furniture comes off the wall, toppling ahead – she barely has time to move her injured ankle out of the way. The small box sitting on top of it falls open to the ground, scattering papers everywhere. A small jar flies out of the box, rolling out of sight, and she stays clutching the bed frame, panting from the exertion and dry heaving from the smell.

 _You're gonna get through this_ , whispers Jane in comforting tones.

 _Says you._

 _Yes. Says me._

She can picture his grin so clearly – a grin she so desperately wants to see again.

"Okay. Okay. You're nearly there," she mutters to herself.

Now unstuck from the wall, the drawer is surprisingly light and easy to move around, even with her hands chained as they are. She pushes and pulls it, limping across the room again, until it sits under the window. It's the perfect height to reach the opening – her first strike of luck today.

 _Better break that window before you climb up there_ , warns Jane.

 _Right. Wouldn't want glass in my eyes._

 _Or anywhere else._

A first quick glance around doesn't reveal anything to break the window with.

A second, more careful look, doesn't reveal anything either.

She rolls her eyes.

 _Of course. Of. Friggin. Course. Why did I ever expect this to be easy?_

A new dizzy spell makes her head swim. She sits on the drawer until the floor rights itself again, taking slow breaths through her sleeve. In a moment she'll have to limp to the other room and hope to find something sturdy enough to break the window.

In a moment.

 _Just a moment. Get my breath back. Stop being nauseous. Stop hurting._

From where she sits, the door seems so far away.

 _Don't let despair win, Teresa_ , whispers Jane in her mind.

"I'm – I'm just so tired."

 _You're having an adrenaline crash. You need to push through. Get yourself out of here._

"How?" she sobs. "I don't think I have the strength to get a lamp or – or that God-awful birds sculpture and pull it in here. And even if I did, I'll never be able to break the glass with it, not in these handcuffs!"

 _Maybe you don't need to go back to the other room. Didn't you overlook something?_

She closes her eyes, tries to ignore her surroundings, and _think_.

"The box," she realises "Something rolled under the bed. Sounded heavy. I could – throw it maybe?"

 _There you go._

She opens her eyes again. The corpse stares back at her, still grinning in all its rotting, unholy glory.

"No. _No way_. I am _not_ crawling under that bed in – _in dried cadaver fluids_ – to pick up _God knows what_ that rolled under there! No way!"

 _Do you see a better solution?_

"I'd rather take my chances with the birds, thanks," she mutters dryly.

Pain suddenly shots through her side when she gets up, a sharp, piercing agony coming from her ribs – strong enough that she wonders for a moment if her wound didn't open again. But there's no blood leaking through the makeshift bandage. She lets out a small sigh of relief.

 _Probably just the skin pulling a bit. I'm okay. I'll be fine._

 _Could have been your ribs piercing through your lungs_ , whispers Jane. _Don't you think it would be better to limit your efforts? Come on. Get the thing under that bed, Teresa._

"I don't _want_ to crawl under there," she moans.

 _Maybe you don't need to. Look. Isn't that a jar just there, against the bed's leg?_

She limps slowly towards the bed, her instincts at war between getting her hands on that jar as quickly as she can, and staying far away from the decaying body on the sheets. Teeth clenched, ignoring the strain on her ankle, she falls to one knee, reaches under the bed, and grabs the jar quickly. Several white particles float in the transparent liquid, catching the light shining from the window. She frowns, looks more closely, and nearly drops it in disgust when she recognises what it is.

 _Crap. That's the victims' fingernails. I can't throw that out the window!_

 _Why not?_

 _It's evidence! If I destroy or lose it, they'll never get a conviction._

 _Are you kidding me?! Even if they can't build a case for murder, they'll get him on kidnapping charges_ – YOURS! _For God's sake!_ _Get yourself back up, break that damn window, and_ get yourself out of here!

Jane's voice echoes so loudly in her mind that she jumps, startled.

"You would never use those words," she whimpers, pulling herself up. "If you were really here."

He doesn't answer.

Of course he doesn't. She's alone in this basement.

 _Not for long. Get out of here._

Limping to the foot of the bed, she cocks her head to the side, eyes narrowed in concentration. The window is small – if she misses it, the jar will break against the wall, and if she doesn't throw it hard enough, it will bounce back and break against the cement floor.

Whatever she does, something _will_ break. She just hopes it won't be her chances of freedom.

 _Think about it like baseball. You only get one shot. Don't miss or you're out._

"Hail Mary, full of grace," she whispers, then throws with both hands.

The jar arcs gracefully in the air, as if in slow motion, and hits the window off-centre to the right. The window pane cracks but doesn't break – and the jar bounces back to her feet. It shatters on the ground, splashing unknown fluid everywhere, drenching her socks and the hem of her trousers.

" _No_ ," she moans.

 _It's okay – it's okay, Lisbon. Just climb up there and use your elbow. It's cracked, it won't need much impact to break._

 _I'll need to protect my elbow though. If I try to just punch through, I'll cut myself._

 _Take the sheet._

"The sheet? Are you mad?! There's a corpse stuck to it! Blood and – and who knows what else! I am _not_ touching that thing!"

 _I meant the sheet Lazarus hanged over the door opening.  
_

"Right. I knew that," she mutters, nauseated.

 _Of course you did_ , chuckles Jane in her mind.

Limping to the door, taking care not to step on glass, she grabs the sheet and pulls it off its nails. Then she goes back to the drawer and climbs carefully. Once in a secure position, she wraps the piece of cloth around her fist and punches, the movement made awkward by the chain limiting her range.

The cracks widen, but the window doesn't break.

She punches again.

The window breaks on the third try, shards of glass falling all over her, and the first breath of fresh air brings tears to her eyes.

For a minute she stays there, panting heavily – relishing the scents of cut grass, of clean stone and earth, of running water and rust coming from outside. Hope swells up inside her, and for the first time since the shooting, she allows herself to believe this nightmare is coming to an end.

 _You need to get out of there_ , Jane reminds her. _Quickly, before Lazarus comes back_.

"Yes. Okay. Getting out now."

 _You go, girl._

Using her wrapped hand, she brushes all remaining glass off the frame, then off herself. The window is small, but one glance up close and she knows she can pull through. Teeth clenched, she turns around carefully, faces the room and unwraps the piece of fabric, leaving it to fall to the ground. Then she passes her arms through the opening, handcuffs clicking against wood and bricks, fingers groping outside to find something sturdy enough to support her weight.

She nearly laughs in relief when she finds a piece of metal not too far up – a pipe, she thinks. Probably part of the gas system. Wrapping her hands around it, she steadies herself, knees slightly crouched.

 _One... Two... Three... GO!_

Then she jumps, pulls herself up through the window opening. She hears the drawer falling to the ground, but she's way past caring about that – she's getting _out_. Her muscles protest, pain tears her side, but she keeps pulling herself up, unwilling to give up, until half her body is hanging out the window. Then she carefully lowers herself to the grass and crawls out, rolling on her stomach.

 _Free!_

The sun shining up in the sky warms her clammy skin. She laughs out load, tears streaming down her cheeks – nearly delirious with relief and exhaustion.

"Let's get out of here, huh?" she smiles, pulling herself upright on aching, shivering muscles. "Let's get home."

* * *

 **Next chapter's prompt: Close**


	18. Hour 11: Close - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Hi! Uhm, long time no see, haha. Last time I posted a chapter for this story was... yikes, 10 months ago? Well, we're back on now. New year, new resolutions, yes? And one of mine is to stop dawdling and finish this story properly. Hopefully you'll like this chapter!

 **Warnings:** Implied mutilation and sequestration of a (non-canon) character, uhm perhaps nauseating smell description? You be the judge of that.

* * *

 **Hour 11: Jane**  
 **Close**

 _Just one more minute. Deep breath in... deep breath out. Okay. Now look._

The time on Wylie's computer hasn't changed. He nearly growls out loud.

 _That thing must be broken. Try again. Deep breath in..._

"We're up," says Cho, walking into the bullpen. "Jane, a word."

He nearly jumps out of his skin in his haste to comply. Cho leads him to the conference room – the fishbowl, as Lisbon dubbed it. His heart clenches painfully at the reminder.

"Abbott says you want to be part of the operation. Is that true?"

"Yes, it is."

"He also said it's up to me. You okay with that?"

"Yes. Yeah, of course."

"Then you'll wear a vest."

"I'm already wearing one," he grins – stretched lips over bared teeth, a pitiful attempt to hide the mess of emotions churning inside.

Cho crosses his arms, unamused.

"Oh come on, is this really necessary?" he sighs. "It's just a search warrant."

"You're the target of a serial killer who snatches people off their porches and shoots them before stealing their blood. I can't keep my eyes on you all the time. If you're coming with us, you're wearing a vest, Jane. That's non-negotiable."

He hesitates. Pointing out Cho's transparent attempt to feel in control by controlling _him_ is unlikely to go over well. But there is no real dilemma – if the choice is between wearing heavy armour over wrinkled clothes in the field or a fresh, clean suit in the bullpen, he'll take the option that has a better chance of _getting Lisbon back_.

"Fine. Hope you have something in my size," he says, annoyed, with a vague hand gesture to his own body. "It's not as if I have the same kind of muscles you cowboys do."

 _A normal size should fit you just fine. Your ego is big enough to fill the extra space_ , whispers Lisbon in his mind.

Eyes cast down, he smiles briefly – and genuinely, this time. Cho stares at him a few seconds, then walks back to the bullpen. Probably decided he has better to do than investigate his mood swings.

Good. He doesn't feel like explaining himself.

Wearing the bulletproof vest is as unpleasant as he imagined. Riding at the back of Cho's car is worse. Between his current four layers of clothing, the weight of lead and guilt pressing over his shoulders, and the two sweaty FBI agents flanking his sides, the heat and human funk – literally as well as metaphorically – is impossible to escape. Not to mention the throbbing pain pulsing in his pointer finger.

"That doesn't look good," mentions the woman by his side, eyebrows raised. "You should have it checked out."

"Yeah," he mutters. "I hear that a lot. Are we there yet?"

"Soon," answers Cho. "What do you expect to find in that house?"

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a second. He knows what he _wants_ to find – Lisbon, alive and stashed somewhere in the house, or barring that, something leading to her location. But something stops him from speaking up – as if saying the words out loud would crystallise his hopes and fears, make them real enough to rob him of objectivity and common sense.

The truth is, he doesn't know for sure what Saltonstall is hiding. It may be Lisbon. It may be something else. What he _does_ know is that, if he gets in there expecting anything at all, he may miss what he did not.

 _Like I did two hours ago._

So he shrugs.

"I'm not sure. The man is lying, that's all I'm sure of. He knows something. Hiding something bad. If it leads us to her – "

He catches Cho's raised eyebrows in the mirror, bites his lip.

"I don't _know_. But we can start with the DVD from earlier," he offers. "Saltonstall was pretty up in arms about it."

"We can't. He stepped on it as we were leaving."

"Did he?"

 _Crap._

"Well, we should bring the pieces to Wylie. Maybe he'll be able to repair it or – or pull data from it anyway. Right?"

In lieu of an answer, Cho pulls the car to the side of the road and parks cleanly, without fuss. The agents flanking him don't seem eager to move – but when they finally do, he jumps out of the vehicle and runs to Saltonstall's porch.

"Jane!" growls Cho. "Damn it!"

"Just opening the door for you!" he yells back, already at work with his lock picks.

They don't have a single minute to lose.

"I told you to follow my lead," says Cho, breathing hard after catching up.

"And I will. After you," he answers, pushing the door open – ignoring his friend's glare.

The inside of Saltonstall's house once again shocks him with its high ceilings, pure lines, and rich design. He frowns, feeling trapped halfway between confusion, disbelief, and dark foreboding, while Cho directs the FBI agents around the place. Once again, the impression that something isn't right is niggling at his mind.

 _How was he able to pay for all this?_

Nothing strange or damning in any way on the bookshelves.

All the DVD boxes he opens seem to be exactly what they're supposed to be.

The fireplace's mantle has been dusted recently – nothing is out of place.

 _Everything is out of place._

He picks up a random book, flips the pages, puts it back. Turns to the couch – the pillows are well put together, but the throw is haphazardly draped over the backrest. The place is clean, but not unnaturally so. One of the plants on the nearest windowsill is wilting.

 _Where's the catch?_

Cho's footsteps on the marbled floor don't echo. He frowns – stops, and listens.

"Jane, thoughts?"

"Yes, well – it's very quiet, isn't it?" he says, walking around the living room. "Even for a small house in the suburbs."

He walks to the window, pushes the plant aside and pulls it open. A cacophony of birds chirping, wind blowing, water running, and city noises make their way inside. When he closes it, the returned quietness feels suffocating. Cho squints.

"Soundproofed?"

"Must be. Now, the question is _why_ – and how did he manage to pay for all this. You don't get this kind of house on a civil servant's pay check, especially not a teacher's," he adds, waving a hand. "The sound insulation here is even better than what I had in Malibu. Trust me, it doesn't come cheap."

"Inheritance maybe?" asks one of the FBI agent.

He clicks his tongue.

"Hmm. No. Look around you – everything here was carefully chosen for a specific purpose in mind. He either bought this place as it is or made the upgrades himself. Either way, I'd bet on something a little more distasteful as his main source of income."

"Drugs?"

"Could be drugs," he shrugs – allowing for the possibility without believing it himself.

He picks up the pieces of the broken DVD that are still spread over the carpet, stores them carefully in the evidence bag Cho tosses him on request.

"Saltonstall made very sure his home had the best possible soundproof technology. His goal was either to keep the noise out – " he mutters to himself.

Removing one shoe, he tests the thickness of the carpet with his toes. It's soft. Inviting. Necessary on such a hard surface. The floor creaks slightly as he puts his shoe back on, walks over the length of the room, then comes back and stands in the middle, bouncing on his feet a little.

" – or he was trying to keep the noise _in_."

He crouches down, takes a deep breath. Frowns. Breathes deeply again, eyebrows furrowed.

"Cho?"

"Yeah?"

"I think we should call CSU here. Maybe an ambulance."

"Why?"

He pulls the carpet off, revealing the trapdoor hidden under.

"Because stone floors don't creak. And this – this _thing_ , it smells – bad."

"Shit," mutters Cho. "Jane, stay there. _Hey! We got something!_ "

The two FBI agents come running from different areas of the house. Cho pulls on the latch, opening the door. A miasma of old blood and sickness floats up to his nose. He gags.

 _Lisbon isn't dead. She isn't. She's not in that basement, she's not. She's not dead. She's fine. We'll find her alive and well. She's not dead. She_ –

"Stay there," repeats Cho, gun drawn, ready to make his way down the stairs. "Call Abbott."

But he cannot obey that kind of order. First, his hands are shaking – there's no way he can pick up his phone without dropping it right now. And _Lisbon_ –

He clenches his fists, tries to regulate his breathing.

Cho is _not_ side-lining him.

Not when Lisbon's life could be at stake.

 _Not when she could be so close._

He dives.

" _Jane!_ "

Hands grab at his clothes but he moves too quickly for them to pull him back. Cho, somewhere over his head, lets out an impressive collection of swear words – but he's past caring. He falls more than he runs down the stairs, barely touching the steps before hitting the hard cement floor.

The smell is stronger down here – rot and sulphur in the dark, the stench of something dead or about to die. And the very thought compresses his lungs, makes him feel like being drowned in freezing water.

"Lisbon?" he calls, voice rasping against his throat. "Lisbon!"

A guttural moan answers somewhere on his left. He wants to run over there – but the moment he tries, someone pulls his arms behind his back and hold him in place.

"Jane, stop!"

"Let me go! _Lisbon!_ "

"I swear to God, Jane! Stop or I'll shoot you!"

He stops moving, breathing harsh and painful, trying to keep the panic, the sobbing in. The two other agents rush ahead, hands on their weapon, flashlights washing over the walls in random patterns. Cho stays by his side, keeping him in a hold until he gives up and stops struggling, his limp body slumping to the ground. He waits, unnerved by the tense silence. Cho's hand is heavy on his shoulder.

" _Clear!_ " says one of the FBI agents.

" _I've got something!_ " says the other.

A silence, then –

" _Oh my god, he's alive! Call an ambulance!_ "

"Is it Lisbon?" he calls back, struggling to get back up. "Is it – "

" _It's a man! He's in bad shape, needs medical assistance immediately!_ "

"I'll make the call," answers Cho. "Jane, you're coming with me. Come on."

Mind flooded with relief, he obeys without a word, follows him upstairs on heavy legs. When Cho picks up his phone and calls for emergency services, he slumps against the wall. Closing his eyes tightly, he pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs a point between his eyebrows. Only then is he able to breathe out his fear.

 _It's not Lisbon. Not Lisbon._

"You're an idiot," says Cho after hanging up.

"I know," he whispers.

"If you keep doing that kind of crap, Jane, I'll have to bench you."

"You won't do it though."

"Give me _one_ good reason why not."

He looks up, catches Cho's gaze.

"Because you – in my position, you'd do the same."

Cho glares.

"Maybe. But I need to be able to trust you in the field. Do you hear me?"

He pinches his lips, averts his eyes, then nods.

Cho sighs heavily. He knows what it means – his friend doesn't believe him. Not that he should, of course not. He's self-aware enough to know that, the next time, he'll behave exactly the same.

How could he not?

"We should take his computer back to HQ," he says, trying for a distraction. "Bring the list of names to Wylie."

Cho opens the front door – the distant wailing of an ambulance is coming towards them.

"Already gave the order."

It takes very little time for the medics to park in front of the residence, swoop in with a stretcher and medical equipment, then make their way back up with the injured man. He keeps himself out of their way, doing his best not to slip into a well of despair when he sees the extent of the victim's mutilations – the idea that someone might have done the same to Lisbon is horrifying. Cho stays at arm's length the whole time, but he doesn't mind.

It's not as if he has any reason to escape scrutiny anymore.

Not right now, at least.

"You're right," says Cho after the ambulance drives away.

"About what?"

"I won't bench you."

He clenches his fists, then lets out a sharp breath.

"Thank you."

"You're almost impossible to work with, Jane. Especially now. But trapdoors in the floor, secret passageways – it's a thing of fiction. We never see it in real life. If you hadn't been there, we never would have found that guy."

He stays silent.

"You saved his life," Cho adds.

 _We saved a life_ , echoes Lisbon in his mind. He swallows harshly.

"It doesn't matter."

"It may not matter to _you_ , but it sure matters to _him_."

"It wasn't Lisbon."

Cho pauses.

"I know. But we'll find her. You hear me?"

The phone rings before he can answer. Cho frowns, puts the line on speaker.

"Yeah?"

"I hear you two stumbled on a crime scene," says Abbott. "How's the vic?"

"On his way to the hospital right now."

"Is SCU there already?"

He glances outside. The white truck is parking where the ambulance was just minutes ago.

"They'll be here in a minute," he says.

"Good. I need you two to drop what you're doing right now."

Blood thrums in his ears.

"Did you find her? Did you find Lisbon?"

"No," answers Abbott. "But there's been another murder."

* * *

 **Next prompt: Stutter**


	19. Hour 12: Stutter - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Just a small reminder for those of you who don't trust my ability to write fluff (as well you shouldn't, haha), when I started on this story I promised you a happy ending. I still fully intend to follow through. Lisbon is not out of the woods yet – there's still six hours to go – but she, Jane, and their kid will survive this. Don't worry! =)

 **Warnings:** Lisbon is injured and stuck in a highly stressful situation, so mind your own stress levels and please stay safe.

* * *

 **Hour 12: Lisbon**  
 **Stutter**

 _Getting herself home_ is, as expected, easier said than done.

Even if she ignores the dull throbbing in her side, limping around on a broken ankle –

 _You cannot be sure it's broken, maybe it's just sprained_ , she repeats to herself, wilfully ignoring both pain and logic.

– limping around on an _injured_ ankle was hard enough on concrete floor. On a grassy, uneven area, without shoes to protect the soles of her feet, it becomes near impossible. And the adrenaline crash currently underway isn't helping either. Standing upright, even without moving, is enough to drench her in sweat.

One hand against the house's outer wall, she closes her eyes and takes a deep, careful breath. Then a second, and a third – doing her best to fill her lungs with fresh air without jostling the bullet graze along her ribs in the process. When her frantic heartbeats quiet down and her strength – at least part of it – returns to her, she takes a look around.

 _One step at a time. First, figure out which way to go._

On her right, a tall wooden fence bordered with several trees on each side. There might be a road on the other side. But reaching it would require either walking until she finds an opening – which could be either quick or take a very long time – or climbing it.

She stares at it, head cocked to the side, frowning a little – considering.

"I could bring it down."

 _Do you really think you have the strength to do something like that?_ chuckles Jane in her mind. _Be clever, Lisbon._

"You're one to talk. With all the harebrained schemes you came up with in the last twelve years?"

 _None of them were as dangerous as what you're proposing to do now._

"You went for a swim in the middle of January just last year!"

 _I wasn't injured as you are right now._

She bites her lip.

"Fair enough," she concedes.

On her left, nothing but trees and open spaces. In the distance, she can see hills and what could _maybe_ be a road – but it looks so far away, reaching it in her condition feels like an insuperable task.

 _Do you see a better way?_

"Do _you_ see a better way?"

No answer, of course. She clenches her teeth and tries to put some weight on her injured ankle. Her next breath comes in a hiss, but her brain must still be pumping a fair amount of endorphins in her system because the pain is less intense than she expected.

"Okay," she mutters. "Okay, one step at a time."

 _That's the spirit. Go on. You can do this._

"I _can_ do this."

 _That's what I just said._

"Yeah, but you didn't mean it."

Jane's chuckle warms her inside – gives her the courage to take that first step. The pain shoots up her leg, but she clenches her teeth and takes another one. And another. And step by step, just as predicted, she reaches the closest tree, against which she all but collapses.

 _Look_ , whispers Jane in her mind.

She raises her head – and lets out a sigh of relief when she realises there _is_ a road close by, after all. It just wasn't visible from where she stood earlier. Following it should allow her to reach help.

 _As long as Lazarus doesn't come back before you can get away._

"Aren't you supposed to be encouraging me?"

 _I don't know, Lisbon. Is that why you keep pretending I'm here?_

She doesn't answer – doesn't know _what_ to answer, and frankly doesn't care. There are more pressing matters right now than figuring out if Jane's voice is an hallucination born of exhaustion and desperation, or if she's hearing him because she sustained brain damage in the car crash earlier.

The smooth grass under her feet turns to dirt, and she feels keenly every single small rock, every small branch she accidentally steps on. It doesn't matter – she keeps going. The irritation on her soles is a minor inconvenience compared to her more serious injuries. Eyes on the small fence marking the end of Lazarus' property, she hobbles her way across the ground as quickly as she can, refusing to stop until she reaches it.

When she does, her lungs are on fire and pain makes her light-headed, but one look back and determination replaces despair – she must have travelled across at least two hundred feet already. She can do this.

She _must._

"Which way?" she asks aloud, uncaring if it makes her seem out of her mind.

Considering she plans to walk on a broken – _injured_ – ankle over who knows how many miles to reach civilisation, for all intent and purposes, she might as well be.

 _Left_ , answers Jane in her mind.

"Why left?"

 _Because of the tyre tracks. Look_ _– they all come from the left side. Which means when Lazarus comes and goes, it's always to the left. That's the way to the city._

She chews on her lip for a few seconds, hands clenching on the small fence. The chain between the handcuffs on her wrists clanks loudly against the wood.

"That's also the direction he'll come back from," she points out.

 _Yes, it is. But you have no idea what you'll find on the other side. This road isn't asphalt, Lisbon. It could be a dead end after miles and miles of an empty pathway._

"What if I come face to face with him?"

 _There's enough trees and shrubbery for you to dive in. He's travelling by car – you'll hear him coming._

She swallows and, after a short intake of breath, starts walking.

 _It's pretty, isn't it?_ whispers Jane after a while.

"Huh?" she grunts, mind foggy with pain.

 _Nature. It's beautiful._

"Rocks," she deadpans. "Dirt. Dead leaves. Naked trees."

 _Yes, well, it's something of a_ _– a desertic beauty._

"It's a desertic _something_ all right."

 _Don't be so grumpy, Lisbon. You're letting pain cloud your reflexes, that's not good. Pay attention to your surroundings! I'm sure you'll find something worth your while. And that way, you can tell me all about it when you get home._

Tears spring to her eyes at the thought of home. But she cannot cry, not yet.

She cannot waste the energy.

So instead she follows Jane's advice, and does her best to keep herself rooted in reality, with her senses alert. She looks around, strains her ears, take deep breaths.

The sights – green shrubbery and yellow sand, black and white rocks far away from the road. Mountains in the distance, and no end in sight for the path she's walking on.

The smells – fresh wind with a hint of pine tree. Or perhaps fir? Something that smells like resinous sap, anyway. It's not as if she consulted a book on softwood trees before getting abducted.

The sounds – running water, there must be a river nearby. Birds – species unknown, but lots of them. Enough to give her a headache. And some kind of strange buzzing, scratching sound she isn't sure she identifies.

She squints. The scratching sound intensifies, and something that looks disturbingly like a sandstorm is coming closer. Her heartbeat stutters, then threatens to stop when she realises what it is.

Car on the road.

Coming her way.

Lazarus.

 _Lisbon! Hide!_

She barely gets out of the way in time. The car rushes past the tree behind which she takes shelter, giving no sign of stopping or turning around. For a moment she thinks perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps it isn't Lazarus after all. Perhaps she should have taken a chance and hailed the driver. But memories of what happened to Grace after she was kidnapped by the Haibach siblings float to her mind, and she knows hiding was the only possible solution. Even as injured as she is, she cannot take the chance to hail a driver as long as she hasn't found a safer road.

The buzzing sound she heard earlier hasn't stopped. And thankfully, she recognises what it is.

Vehicles zooming on the freeway.

 _You need to move now_ , whispers Jane. _If that was Lazarus, he'll turn around very quickly and come looking for you. You need to reach that freeway before he gets here. So go. Now._

One last look behind, and she starts to run.

Her entire body feels like it's been set on fire, but she doesn't stop. Cannot stop. Not when she's so close to freedom. Not when she's so close to _safety_. She can nearly hear Jane's tearful relief already – she can't wait to make that phone call.

 _So close._

Then the scratching sound of tyres on dirt road makes itself heard again, coming from behind this time, and she knows it's over. No matter how quickly she runs – and she cannot run very quickly, not with her ankle, not her ribs hurting so much – she won't be able to outrun his car. She won't be able to outrun his gun.

She slows down, then comes to a stop.

 _You cannot stop!_ yells Jane in her mind.

"What am I supposed to do then, huh?" she tries to yell back – voice coming in a thin, out of breath growl instead. "It's over, Jane! I don't have a weapon, I can't keep running like that. And there's nowhere to hide."

 _He'll kill you!_

"Maybe. It's a possibility. But – "

 _But nothing! Lisbon, what about me? What about our child? If you give up –_

"I am _not_ giving up," she says, teeth clenched. "I just – I don't think he'll kill me. At least not if I stop running now. He still wants to contact his father's spirit."

 _What if he doesn't care about his father anymore? You injured him earlier. What if he just shoots you?_

"Jane. Shut up now."

 _Lisbon!_

"Shut up."

She can hear the car coming closer, and closer still, and then stopping on the side of the road. Back against a tree, she closes her eyes. Footsteps disturb the small rocks on the dirt path. Her left hand climbs to her neck, holds tight on her mother's cross.

 _It's going to be okay._

 _You know I don't believe in God, Lisbon_ , comes Jane's terrified whisper.

 _I know. But I do._

Jane – the part of herself that wants to panic, wants to keep running – is still making noises at the back of her mind, but she ignores it. Ignores everything. Everything but the steady rhythm of her breathing, her slowing heartbeat, and the relief when she stops putting pressure on her ankle.

 _Faith isn't waiting for God to save you from hopeless situations_ , she reminds Jane – reminds _herself_. _Faith is believing God will provide you with the means and opportunity to save yourself_.

Her right hand slides down her side until it reaches her pocket. She pats the fabric, feels the small, hard form of the nail she picked up earlier.

 _I already have the means. I just need to make sure I don't miss the opening._

The familiar sound of a gun ready to shoot echoes in her ears, too close for comfort, and she opens her eyes.

Lazarus stares at her coldly. The purple bruise on his cheekbone stands out on his pale skin, darkening his expression – making him look even more threatening than he seemed earlier. But somehow it doesn't matter. Her mind is quiet – not blank, but devoid of the all-encompassing fear she felt before she escaped out of the basement.

"I should kill you where you stand."

She stays silent.

"You're more trouble than you're worth," adds Lazarus.

His voice is filled with rage, but she can see the slight tightening of his mouth. He isn't ready to kill her yet. Rather, he seems to be trying to get a rise out of her, as if taken aback by her quietness – as if wishing to be provided with an excuse to leap to violence.

She won't let him.

"If you do, you'll never be able to contact your father again," she answers, staring him down intently.

 _Volker frightened me more than you do._

And once she puts words on that thought, it almost becomes true.

Lazarus clenches his teeth – she notices the tell-tale sign of muscles jumping on his jaw – but in the end, just as she predicted, he lowers his weapon. Not much. He could still cause a lot of damage if he pressed the trigger. But enough that she knows he isn't thinking of killing her on the spot anymore.

"Walk to the car," he says. " _Slowly_."

She obeys, hissing every time her right foot touches the ground. As she inches closer, a light clicking sound comes from behind her, where Lazarus stands. She only has a fraction of a second to wonder what he's up to when the car hatch bounces open. She winces.

"Get inside."

She opens her mouth to protest.

 _Just do as he says_ , whispers Jane in her mind. _Don't provoke him. Not now. You'll get a chance to escape later._

She presses her lips together, but nods. As she climbs carefully into the trunk, she notices a fingernail stuck to the hem of her trousers. She shivers, disgusted.

"Hook the chain between your wrists to the latch," adds Lazarus. "Good. Now lie still. If you move, I will shoot you."

He slams the hood over her head. The noise echoes inside, bounces around in her brain, making her ears ring unpleasantly. The car's engine rumbles and starts. Curled on her right side to avoid putting pressure on her left ribs, stuck once more in a position where her movements are limited, she scrunches her eyes and resigns herself to wait.

* * *

 **Next prompt: Redemption**


	20. Hour 12: Redemption - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Thank you so, so much for the reviews and support. I'm humbled that so many of you keep taking chances on me despite the terrible posting delays this past year and everything my stories put you through. It means a lot. You are a gift and I am blessed as a writer. Thank you!

 **Warnings:** Brutal murder of a (non-canon) elderly woman, descriptions of distress, vulnerability, and losing one's mental faculties because of old age, and several mentions of (unseen) rats. If anything about this triggers you, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Hour 12: Jane**  
 **Redemption**

Abbott texts them the address.

They leave their colleagues in charge of the crime scene, jump into the car, and make their way across the city. Cho drives, of course – not only is it his vehicle but, more importantly, he always had a better grasp on his nerves. If _he_ was the one driving, in his current state? There is no doubt he would sooner rather than later crash them both into the next live oak.

For a long time, neither of them say a word – but the silence allows his mind to run wild, suffocating him with terrifying thoughts and imagery. He needs a redirect.

"What does it mean?" asks Cho, a fraction of second before he opens his own mouth.

"The murder?" he hesitates, glancing at his friend sideways.

"Yeah. Do you think he's carting Lisbon around town? Forcing her to – "

"No," he interrupts. "I don't think she's with him, she'd have found a way to leave a message. Abbott would have caught it – he would have told us."

Cho and he share a meaningful look. He averts his eyes first.

"So he has her stashed somewhere."

"Yeah. Something made him move out, leave her behind, I just – I don't know _what_."

And, aside from Lisbon's continued absence, in this moment nothing is more painful than that admission.

Cho nods, his lips a thin line. It could be innocuous, of course. Lazarus could have decided to go out, buy food for her, or even do something that has nothing to do with Lisbon at all. Regular daily errands, even serial killers must have them. But it could also mean Lisbon dead, her body left somewhere for them to find, and his murderer on a spree – they both know that.

She's been missing for twelve hours already.

 _Stop thinking about that. She's not dead._ Not _dead._

Cho makes a sudden, sharp turn in a residential street – no doubt distracted from safe driving with the same kind of thoughts – and stops on the side of the road when they come into sight of a fleet of police cars. Two ambulances are waiting nearby, surrounded by a crowd of bystanders. He frowns.

"Abbott said _one_ murder, right?"

"Yeah. Come on."

He gets out of the car and crosses over to the crime scene, tripping over an empty coffee cup, the remnants of a broken phone, and his own feet in his hurry. Cho follows closely behind, his pace no less urgent. Abbott, supervising the action from his vantage point up on a nearby porch, beckons them forward.

"What's the situation?" says Cho once they reach his side.

"Victim is Betty Smith, 81, retired schoolteacher. Got a call an hour ago, shortly after you left. Neighbours heard gunshots, saw a man run away, leave the area in a navy pick-up truck. They found miss Smith's body shortly thereafter with two to the chest, four to the face."

"To the _face?_ " he winces.

"Yeah. Point blank. There's barely anything left to make an ID – she'll be formally identified with dental records, but for now we're acting on the assumption that the old lady found in the apartment was the old lady who _owned_ the apartment."

"Did SCU pick up her body yet?" asks Cho.

"No. The crime scene was left untouched. I was waiting for you two."

"Then why the ambulances?"

But he doesn't need Abbott to explain that one anymore – several people in the crowd are pale, agitated, barely standing on their feet. Two elderly men are sitting on stretchers, blankets over their shoulders.

"Shock," he says. "Panic, heart attack scares. We didn't call those ambulances, they did."

"Exactly," nods Abbott. "And it's making a mess, let me tell you. But better this mess than another case of mistaken identity. Murders are bad enough when they're the work of a serial killer."

Cho nods.

He watches the crowd for a moment as medics pack their things, reassure more people, and haul back the stretchers inside. One of the ambulances leaves empty. The other stays on standby. He turns back to Abbott.

"So uh, this is all very sad but – why are we here? How is this related to Lisbon?"

"The composite sketch," answers Abbott, taking a sheet of paper out of his pocket. "We shared it with the media. Neighbours recognised him."

"Are we _sure_ it's not a false alarm? There's been quite a few of those recently."

"How about you ask them yourself? They're waiting for you upstairs."

 _Progress, it's progress_ , he reminds himself, taking the sketch from Abbott's hand and moving towards the residential building. A flash of credentials and a nod from Cho lets him pass through the FBI barrage. The noise of the door closing behind the three of them and the way silence falls over them feels sinister – but no more than the bloody, uneven footprints left all over the stairs.

"Go talk to the witnesses," Cho says. "I'll check out the crime scene."

Abbott leads him upstairs, where a middle-aged couple waits under the watchful guard of an FBI agent.

"You're – Peter and Cheryl Johnson, right? Hi. I'm Agent Abbott, this is our consultant Patrick Jane. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Of course. Poor Betty," mutters the woman, shaking her head. "She was so nice. A bit barmy, you know? But nice."

"Cheryl!"

"What? She was!"

"That's not what the policemen want to talk about! They want to hear about the man."

He frowns.

"Actually – actually, I'd be very interested to hear about it. You said she was – barmy? What do you mean by that?"

"We just thought she was getting old," explains the man, rolling his eyes. "Became paranoid since her husband passed away."

"Kept asking us if we saw rats in the building. Deadly afraid of them," confirms his wife.

"Were there any?"

"Of course there wasn't any," answers the man, affronted. "This is a recent construction, a good neighbourhood! We don't have vermin here."

He nods, conceals his smile. Pointing out the millennia-old codependency between rat and human society, or how the level of fanciness of a neighbourhood never stopped rats from invading every possible human dwellings in history, probably wouldn't go over well with those two.

Abbott clears his throat.

"Please tell us what happened again."

He listens as the couple recounts a tale that might be true – _there really isn't any reason for them to lie, is it?_ – but doesn't hold any real interest. They heard gunshots, someone running in the hallways, the man – _Peter?_ – went to look out the window and saw a man leaving in a pick-up truck, the woman – _Cheryl?_ – went downstairs to check what was going on, saw the blood, called it in. Everything else – description of their thoughts and feelings as they were reacting – is self-centred embellishment. He learns nothing more from them than he did from Abbott's quick recap earlier.

Peter Johnson is adamant that he would recognise the serial killer in a line-up. He isn't so sure. A glance from the window shows the man couldn't have seen more than the top of his head unless Lazarus for some reason had decided to look three stories up. They don't even have a partial plate.

 _This is a waste of time._

Doubly so when, getting hyped up over all the attention, they start telling their story from the beginning again.

"So uh – I do have one question," he interrupts. "Why would someone want to kill Betty Smith?"

The couple blinks. Abbott blinks as well.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, yes. Shooting an elderly woman in her apartment isn't our guy's MO at all. So whoever killed her – "

"It _was_ that serial killer, I recognised his face from TV! Saw him as I see you now!"

"Yes, yes," he says, annoyed, waving a hand in the air. "Be as it may, this is a departure from his previous murders. So tell me – why would he target your downstairs neighbour?"

" _For God's sake_ , man! He's a serial killer! Who knows why they do what they do!"

"So you don't know. Very well. Abbott, I think I'll go take a look at that crime scene now. There's nothing more for me here."

"Alright. As long as you're still there when I come down."

He rolls his eyes.

"Where else would I be?"

"Don't make me answer that."

Leaving behind the spluttering, indignant couple, he walks down the flight of stairs and finds his way – easily, he only needs to follow the blood trail – to the victim's apartment. Cho, busy leafing through what looks like a daily calendar, barely glances up when he comes in.

"That didn't take long."

"Meh. Unhelpful, the lot of them. Where's the victim?"

"Living room. Mind your shoes."

The warning wasn't needed – with the amount of blood the killer tracked everywhere outside the apartment, it stands to reason the mess around the victim would be worse. He still cringes when he sees the state of the room – red droplets covering walls and furniture alike – and, worse, the state of the victim. Spread over the floor eagle-like, a phone near her arthritic hand, blood and grey matter staining her white, curly hair. No face. She looks small. _Frail_. Probably a lot more so than she did when she was alive.

He swallows harshly, gaze dropping to the coffee table covered in blood-stained business cards.

 _You never get used to that._

"No track mark. He didn't take her blood," he says, crouching beside the body. "Hey, Cho? Are we sure it's Lazarus' work?"

"Didn't the witnesses identify the composite sketch?"

"From up high. They could have gotten excited, no way to tell."

"They're pulling the feed from security cameras down at the front door. Should tell us for sure."

 _Too long. It'll take too long. Damn it._

He grits his teeth. Examines the body again.

"She angered him," he mutters to himself.

"What did you say?" asks Cho, walking to him.

He stands up, points at the victim's injuries, then at their surroundings.

"See how the blood never goes beyond chest height on the walls and furniture?"

"Yeah. She was already down when he shot her in the face. So?"

"Well, that would be angry behaviour, isn't it? Shooting someone in the face is like – like spitting on them without leaving DNA. Some kind of – petty revenge, right? A childish reaction of anger."

Cho raises his eyebrows, silently asking him to come to a point.

"Well, nothing here fits Lazarus' MO at all, doesn't it? This murder was rushed, sloppy. The escape, even worse. And he didn't steal her blood. So far everything Lazarus did has been well-measured, almost clinically controlled. I cannot imagine someone like him giving into _this_ kind of histrionics."

His gaze falls on the phone near the victim's hand, then slowly travels back to the stack of business cards on the coffee table.

"Unless – "

Side-stepping the body on the floor, he rushes to it, eyes roaming over the tiny prints on stock paper.

" – unless he felt he had no choice," he whispers.

"Gloves," warns Cho, throwing him a pair.

"Was the TV open when you got here?"

"Yeah. Loud, too."

"That's it, then," he says, stretching the latex over his hand.

"Explain."

"She was terrified of rats."

Cho frowns.

"Who was?"

"The victim. Can you take her phone and check the call history?"

"Sure. What for?"

He picks one of the cards, reads the number aloud. When Cho confirms his hunch, he grins – a joyless stretch of lips over teeth, perfect reflection of the emotions churning in his stomach. One he's been sporting a lot lately.

"A reasonably wealthy, elderly lady is terrified of rats. Her husband died in recent years, old age is getting to her, and she feels vulnerable. She slowly becomes paranoid – thinks she's hearing rats in the walls at night, seeing them in the hallways when she goes out. Who knows? Maybe she actually does. Now, this same lady is still independent enough to live on her own. What is a woman like this to do when she thinks rats are invading her home?"

"Call an exterminator," answers Cho, comprehension dawning on his features.

"Exactly," he says, flashing the business card at him. "What if Lazarus, serial killer by night, was – Joseph Keller Jr by day, exterminator for 'Keller & Son'?"

"Crap. So she recognised him when they shared the composite sketch on the news."

"Then she confronted him, made too much noise. He had to kill her before she attracted unwanted attention. That angered him – it wasn't what he wanted, wasn't what he planned for, so – "

He gestures at the victim's face – or lack thereof. Cho is already picking up his phone.

"I'll call Wylie, see if he can track that number."

"Ask him to cross check the name on Saltonstall's list, too. With a bit of luck – "

Cho nods. He licks his lips.

A solid lead.

 _Finally_.

 _Luck, huh?_ whispers Lisbon in his mind. _Perhaps it's just the universe redeeming itself._

 _You know I don't believe in God_ , he thinks.

 _I know. But I do._

His chest hurts – he can picture her teasing smile so perfectly.

 _Hang on, Teresa. We'll find you._

* * *

 **Next prompt: Disgrace**


	21. Hour 13: Disgrace - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Shout-out to **LouiseKurylo** , **Jancey** , **impatricialp** , **MaraFeila** , **inkstainedfingers97** , and **MartyMc49** , because all reviews but especially yours have tremendously brightened my days this past week. Hope you'll like this chapter as well.

 **Warnings:** Captivity in the trunk of a car, dealing with a psychopathic serial killer while injured, and allusions to religion and elements of Catholic Faith (as always in Lisbon's chapters). Mind your stress levels and please stay safe.

* * *

 **Hour 13: Lisbon**  
 **Disgrace**

Exhaustion gets the better of her after only a few minutes of riding blind, curled up on herself in the trunk of the car. Even with the best intentions, she's unable to figure out where Lazarus is going or how far they move away from the basement in which he kept her. After a while, when nausea threatens to rear up, she makes a conscious decision to stop resisting sleep – hoping to at least get back some amount of strength in anticipation of the moment she'll be left out.

She drifts in and out of consciousness for what seems like hours – but cannot possibly be more than twenty minutes – as the car twists and turns alongside uneven roads.

Then it stops with a loud shiver, the door falls shut, and light footsteps walk away.

Silence.

For a moment, nothing happens. She stays quiet and unmoving, straining her ears to figure out Lazarus' next move. But time stretches wide and tall as she waits, and waits, and _waits_ – and soon enough, alone in the dark, she wonders if there is a next move at all.

Maybe the man decided she _was_ too much trouble after all.

 _He'll come back_ , whispers Jane in her mind. _You need to be ready when he does_.

She looks around, tries to stretch her limbs as far as they will go – but cannot find any handle to open the latch from the inside.

Figures.

 _What if he decided to let me die in his car? Dioxide poisoning –_

 _Car trunks are not airtight, Lisbon. Besides, you can kick out the tail lights if you need to. Your hands' movements are limited, not your feet's._

 _What about heat stroke?_

 _It's February. You will last at least a few days, probably up to a week with fresh air supply. It can get pretty cold at night._

 _I'm injured and dehydrated_ , she thinks. _This is not good._

But she can almost see Jane roll his eyes.

 _Fine_ , he whispers in her mind. _Maybe you'll last two or_ – _or maybe just one day instead of a week. It's still long enough for us to find you._

She starts. The chain between her wrists rings like chimes.

 _Find me?_

 _Teresa. Did you really think I would give up looking for you?_

She swallows the painful lump in her throat. It's so easy to forget she isn't completely alone. That people – Jane, Cho, the whole team – are out there, raising a ruckus on her behalf. Somewhere. Out in the world, in places she can barely imagine right now.

 _I will never give up_ , whispers Jane. _And you know that because if our roles were inverted, you would never give up either. So give us a little credit, Lisbon. We'll find you. You only need to hang on until we do_.

"Okay," she whimpers. "Okay. I'll try."

 _Good. Now get that nail out of your pocket. You'll need it when Lazarus comes back._

She nods, then tries to roll on her back. The bullet graze on her left side stings sharp and biting, but the pain thankfully doesn't last – as soon as she's back in a motionless position, all unpleasant sensations dull down to a numb kind of throbbing. Something easy to ignore as she tests the length of her chains, see how far she can move away from the latch.

Reaching her pocket proves impossible.

"Damn it! Now what?"

 _Tail lights._

"Right."

Stretching her leg, she feels the bumps and edges of the trunk with the tip of her toes, trying to figure out where to kick – she'll probably have to turn around again, she thinks, it'll be easier with her heel – when a noise outside makes her freeze.

Footsteps. Coming closer.

 _I guess at least I won't be left to die here._

 _See? Silver linings, Lisbon._

 _Very funny._

"I'm going to open the trunk," says Lazarus, voice muffled by the closed hood. "If you move before I tell you to, I will shoot you. Do you understand?"

She shivers, pushes down on the fear rising inside, threatening to overcome the small amount of bravery she managed to muster through Jane's encouragements.

"I said _do you understand?_ "

"Yes," she answers.

The latch pops over her head. A rush of cold wind makes her shiver a second time – she didn't realise just how hot it had been inside – but chases some amount of drowsiness away.

"Push the hood up."

 _Forest_ , she thinks as she gets a look at the bare trees surrounding them.

 _Mountain_ , says Jane, correcting her first impression. _See how the ground slants? He drove up the hills._

She nods, glancing at the small shack ten feet away from the car.

 _Hunter's cabin. Isolated place – shabby enough that it may not even be registered as a house. This is not good._

Jane's voice, for once, doesn't chime in with its running commentary. Lazarus, face half-hiding behind his gun, stares at her with a hungry expression.

"I will toss you the keys. You will keep your hands in sight at all time. If you do anything I didn't tell you to, I _will_ shoot you."

She nods, makes sure to follow his instructions as she removes the handcuffs. No point in angering him unnecessarily. He still thinks he needs her to contact his father's spirit – she'll get more chances to escape before the day is over, she has to believe it.

Has to _keep faith_.

"Get out of the trunk. Slowly."

 _Oh please_ , whispers Jane in her mind. _Slowly?_ _He busted your ankle!_ _What does he expect you to do now, leap out like a three-legged gazelle?  
_

She bites down on the smile that wants to climb up her lips and carefully lowers her legs to the ground, keeping her hands in sight.

 _Hush. This isn't the time to snark._

 _You know – technically I'm not the one snarking here, Lisbon._

 _I said hush!_

 _I'm hushing_ , chuckles Jane.

"Walk," says Lazarus.

"Where am I supposed to go?"

" _Walk_."

She takes a deep breath, clenches her teeth against the pain, and hobbles on. The uneven ground covered in dead leaves makes it hard to keep herself upright – every three steps, one of her feet hits a rock, or a root, or a small mud hole on which her socks slip all too easily. Lazarus gives succinct directions as she walks, staying behind her, no doubt with his gun pointed at her back. Under his orders, hands up, she circles around the cabin until she reaches a small courtyard in the middle of which stands an unidentified wood contraption.

 _Swings_ , whispers Jane.

She squints.

 _Swings usually have chains and a seat, not handcuffs hanging down a hook._

 _Well he's a serial killer, Lisbon. You have to expect him to get a little creative with his childhood implements._

The insistent, nasty memory of a tortured body hanging by its wrists crosses her mind. She bites her lip.

 _He wants to hook me up like he did with Gabriel._

 _You cannot let him do that._

She rolls her eyes, confident that Lazarus – who still walks behind her – won't notice.

 _No kidding. Do you have any better advice?_

 _Just remember he could have brought you back to the basement. He didn't. There must be a reason._

She frowns.

 _What do you mean? I destroyed the table's hook. He wouldn't be able to hold me there anymore._

 _He hooked you to a pipe on the ceiling earlier. He could have done it again. Instead, he went to the trouble of moving you here. Why?_

Her injured ankle gives off a new painful twinge when she slips on another puddle of mud. Out of breath, she stops, lets herself fall on one knee. She feels like a failure. Surely other cops – or anyone really – in her situation would fare better.

 _Don't be silly_ , whispers Jane in her mind. _You're still alive. Most people would have been killed over their inability to convince him they have psychic powers_.

 _I'm scared_ , she admits silently.

 _Hang on. Make him talk. You might find something to use against him_.

"Get up," says Lazarus, voice cold and distant.

She doesn't risk a glance behind – instead brings one hand to her left side, the other down on the ground. Dead leaves crunch under her fingers, the debris sticking to her palm.

"I said _get up!_ "

"I'm _trying_ ," she answers, panting – defiant. "I'm hurt. I can't go quickly."

A quick prayer, then she leans heavily on her left side, makes a show of it – groaning so that Lazarus will miss her hand deftly dipping in and out of her pocket, taking the nail out and concealing it between middle and ring finger.

 _Not bad, Lisbon_ , whispers Jane in her mind, and she can nearly see his proud grin, hear the impressed undertones in his voice. _Not bad at all._

She gets back on her feet, fighting the urge to chuckle – because she can feel the slight shivering of hysteria inside, and if she lets go, soon she'll be sobbing uselessly. There isn't time for that. Soon perhaps – _hopefully_ – but not yet. So she clenches her teeth – once more, and it's becoming a nasty habit – and walks the remaining steps to the swings structure. Then she stops and turns around.

Lazarus stands about fifteen feet away from her, brown paper bag and bottle of water in one hand, gun loosely pointed on her. She swallows down her fear, breathes quietly, and quickly glances up and down – taking the man's general appearance in. He frowns back at her, brings his shoulders up as if to make himself taller. But under the boyish bravado, she can read his body language well enough – he doesn't really intend to shoot, at least for now. He only plans to frighten her into compliance.

 _Good._

Then she notices the reddish brown stains on his white sneakers, and fear rises up again because _that is not mud_.

He killed someone recently.

Very recently.

 _Hold on_ , whispers Jane's comforting voice. _Maybe that's your blood. You left quite a mess in the basement, remember?_

She lets the idea settle at the base of her skull, then dismisses it. Her blood would have been dried by the time he got there. The stain on his shoes still looks fresh – barely congealed.

 _Well, he had a nosebleed earlier. Maybe some of it fell on his shoes._

 _It would have left drops on the top of those sneakers. The stain there is on the side._

 _Well, maybe he bled on the ground, then walked in it?_

No _, Jane. Stop. Just – stop. I know I'm right this time._

She leans slightly against the wooden structure, holds Lazarus' dark gaze, and reads emptiness in it. She shivers. He killed, then walked in the blood of his victim, probably left bloody footprints everywhere. And he didn't care that he did.

That's why they're here, in this isolated place up in the mountains, and not in the basement anymore.

Because the FBI knows his name – if they don't know it already, they will learn it soon enough.

Because he doesn't care about his own life anymore. He's ready to leave everything behind as long as he gets what he wants.

And that terrifies her more than any gun.

 _I need to get the upper hand back._

"You're not a very nice person," says Lazarus suddenly, waving the gun in a vague encompassing gesture.

She raises an eyebrow, but keeps silent.

"I've been _kind_ to you. I gave you food. I let you relieve yourself. And the pain you're in? You brought that down on yourself – I wouldn't have harmed you if you hadn't jumped on me. The other one, you know who I'm talking about? _He_ wasn't so lucky."

He seems to be waiting for an answer. She nods shortly, still unwilling to talk.

"That's because I believe in you. You _do_ have powers – you proved it," Lazarus adds. "So I got water for you. More food. And I'm ready to give you one last chance."

She nods again, suddenly uncomfortably aware of her parched throat.

"But if you cause trouble again, I'll shoot. I won't hesitate. I want you to know that."

"Okay," she says – voice coming in barely a whisper. "Okay," she repeats, louder this time.

"Good. I will give you this," he says, raising the hand holding the water and paper bag. "But first, you will lock your left hand in those handcuffs."

"I won't be able to catch," she protests.

The look he shoots her way is so fierce – so threatening – that she bites her tongue, quickly nods, and slips her left hand in the metallic loop without further discussion. The nail stuck between her fingers clicks lightly against the steel.

 _Don't close it too tight_ , whispers Jane in her mind. _Leave yourself enough space to be able to slip out as soon as you can. He's far enough that he'll probably miss it. You might get a chance to escape that way._

"I know," she whispers.

"Who are you talking to?" asks Lazarus.

She opens her mouth, hesitates. The expression on his face is ravenous – _terrifying_ – and she knows she should exercise caution. But the answer slips between her lips before she has time to think it through.

"My guardian angel."

Lazarus looks stunned. And she can already hear Jane's scoff turning into an outright laugh – but the truth is, as things currently stands, there is no answer that could possibly be more accurate.

She releases her breath, holds his gaze, and smiles.

* * *

 **Next prompt: Waiting**


	22. Hour 13: Waiting - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** Hi! Fair warning: I will raise the rating to M (for violence) on the next chapter. So make sure to adjust your search settings accordingly and/or to put this story on alert, otherwise it'll disappear from your results. =)

Dear **half agony and hope** , this one is for you. I'm sure you'll figure out why.

 **Warnings:** Actually I think we're good for this one, haha. Please tell me if something in here triggers you, so I can add it to the warnings.

* * *

 **Hour 13: Jane**  
 **Waiting**

Down in the street, the medics from the second ambulance are packing up. Bystanders slowly clear the area, crawl back home – no doubt about to jump on the phone with friends and family, spread some gossip. He knows all too well how these things work. _The serial killer, the one from the news!_ they'll say. _He killed someone on my block!_ Friends and family will react suitably shocked, no doubt – or, considering the number of shootings and other murders happening everywhere these days, perhaps just this side of blasé.

Peter and Cheryl Johnson, the couple who found Betty Smith's body, will be the stars of the neighbourhood – for a few weeks at the very least. Perhaps even until summer comes along, if they're lucky. Considering their reaction earlier, he has no doubt they'll relish every minute of it.

Betty Smith will remain dead, of course, and soon enough will be forgotten – but that's just the way of the world. Most victims are lost to time. Killers – serial killers, especially – remain.

He grits his teeth.

Cho is still on the phone with Wylie.

He looks down the window again – as if from a great distance, feeling himself almost removed from reality – until the ambulance leaves and the last bystanders clear the street. Then his eyes stop on a small, dark form in the middle of the road – a random dropped object, merely a fixed point to anchor himself to – as his fingers slip inside his pocket and pull out his wedding band.

Ears straining – and failing – to hear Wylie's voice, he doesn't immediately realise he removed the gloves Cho gave him earlier to put the ring back on his left hand. When he does, shame falls on him like a bucket of ice water.

He closes his eyes, rubs at them hard.

Doesn't remove the ring.

Playing with it, twisting it around his finger has been such a comforting habit in stressful times.

 _It's just for now_ , he promises himself – a silent, desperate bargain. _I'll remove it as soon as we get back to headquarters. Sooner, if we find Lisbon first._

"Jane," says Cho.

He opens his eyes.

"The name checks out. 'Joseph Keller' was on Saltonstall's list. Wylie said to tell you his username is 'Eleazar7', if that means anything to you."

"It does. Trace?" he asks, vibrating with impatience.

"No luck. Must have destroyed his phone – he knows we're onto him now."

 _Crap._

Then he squints, eyes zooming in again on the small object down in the street – the one he's been staring at for at least five minutes already – at the exact moment a car drives through and sends it gliding under a parked vehicle.

"Hey, do you think Wylie could get something useful out of a broken phone?" he asks, rocking on his feet, trying for levity but unable to stand still.

"Maybe. We'd have to find it first."

"Oh, I think we already did."

He rushes out without another word. Cho yells at him, but he doesn't stop. He saw the phone earlier, _damn it_ – even tripped over it on his way to the crime scene. He should have known it was Lazarus'. Nobody leaves their broken phone lying around nowadays, those things cost a fortune. People re-sell or re-purpose them, they don't just throw them away in the street – not unless they're deliberately trying to dispose of them. He should have _known_.

Breathing hard, he flies down the stairs and pushes through the FBI barrage, running as fast as he can, only pausing until he identifies the car under which the phone disappeared. Panic clouds his mind as he crawls under the vehicle. Where is it? Something drips on his forehead, but he doesn't have time to worry about that. Priority is to locate the device.

 _Please tell me it wasn't kicked down the drain, please,_ please _–_

Then his fingers brush against something hard, plastic and metal and soft rounded edges, and he sighs, pure relief flooding his veins.

"You're an ass," says Cho, out of breath, as he crawls back out, phone in hand.

"An ass with evidence," he answers, wiping his damp forehead with the back of his hand.

Oil leaves a greasy trail on his sleeve.

"You can't be sure it's evidence."

"You can't be sure it's not," he shoots back.

Cho rolls his eyes.

"You're an ass _and_ you need a shower."

He grins. Cho takes the phone out of his hand, drops it in a plastic bag.

"Let's get that to Wylie," he says, rocking on the ball of his feet.

"That's not up to me."

He blinks. Cho, with just a hint of humour, makes a hand gesture towards the other side of the road. Abbott, a displeased expression on his face, is charging in their direction like an angry cat that someone forgot to feed this morning.

" _Jane_ ," he growls. "What did I tell you earlier?"

He rolls his eyes.

"I'm still here, am I? Come on, Dennis, we don't have time for that! Look," he adds, pointing to the phone in Cho's hand. "We have a name, we have a lead, we can track him down!"

Abbott turns to Cho, who explains what they figured out in a few short sentences. He's grateful for Cho's 'Jane-to-normal' translation work, he really is – with the way his mind runs faster than his mouth right now, he would do a terrible job explaining himself – but _for Lisbon's sake can they not hurry up?_

"Alright," says Abbott after what seems like _hours_. "We're done here, let's go back to HQ. Jane, you're coming with me."

"Sure," he shrugs, then turns to Cho. "Mind if I – ?"

He flashes a quick grin then strikes, steals the evidence bag out of Cho's hands. His friend doesn't even try to stop him – instead he stares with an almost placid expression, the side of his lips quirking up, and releases his grasp on the phone.

Almost as if he expected it.

 _Please. Of course he knew_ , chuckles Lisbon in his mind.

His grin widens – finds a small, understated, amused echo on Cho's face.

"Catch up with you later!" he sing-songs, then runs after Abbott.

He spends the ride back to headquarters turning the device in his hands – a nervous gesture expressing everything from stress to hope to keen desperation for answers. For _action_. He could probably open the bag and examine it himself – but he doesn't trust his hands. The screen, shattered beyond repair, is leaking tiny glass fragments and dust everywhere in the bag. And while the damage doesn't seem as bad on the other side, the back isn't intact by any means. Even the way he fiddles with it right now is a risk, but he's unable to stop himself.

 _Please, let Wylie find something in there_.

"After we find Lisbon, you and I will need to have a serious conversation about the way you act, Jane," says Abbott, suddenly breaking the silence.

"Aren't you moving to DC?" he asks distractedly.

"Yes. As soon as we close this case. Cho will take over – "

"Then the way I act will be his business, not yours."

Abbott takes advantage of a red light to throw a frustrated glance at him.

"Was he ever in charge of you before, when you were working in the CBI?"

"No," he answers, eyes stuck on the ceiling. "Well yes, once," he amends.

"How long did it last?"

He bites his lip, trying to recall.

"I dunno. The time for us to close a case?" he hesitates.

 _Not very long_.

"Less than a week?" asks Abbott, perceptive.

"We've been working together for over ten years now. He knows how I roll."

"See, that's my whole point, Jane. He may be used to your methods, but he isn't used to taking heat for them. I need you to understand that what you do has consequences for the people around you."

He sighs, waves a hand in the air.

"It won't matter, anyway. After we find Lisbon, I'm quitting."

"You're _what?_ "

Abbott stares.

"Eyes on the road," he reminds him – a reflex now, considering the number of times he said this to Lisbon. "Is it really that surprising?" he adds mildly. "I was never really like you guys. The reasons I do this – "

He stops, licks his lips, then chews on the inside of his cheek. The bite mark on his finger, catching against the edge of the broken phone, stings sharp and sudden – jolting his awareness of it in the most unpleasant way.

"I can't keep going on like this anymore, you know? I need to stop. Find something else to do with my life."

"Settle down?"

Abbott's voice is dry, but not without humour.

"I don't know, m – maybe. Would it be so strange? I was married once," he points out.

"So I see," answers Abbott, glancing down at his wedding band.

He grits his teeth, moving his left hand out of sight, but doesn't bother answering – they're _here_. Abbott stops the car in front of the main entrance, letting him jump out before moving to the parking area. He runs to the elevator, slams the button and, when it doesn't move quickly enough for his taste, rushes up the stairs.

"Hey!" says Wylie, bright smile on his lips, when he reaches the bullpen. "Jane! Uh, something's leaking down your – _woah_. You okay?"

"Yeah," he answers, out of breath. "Listen, I got this from the crime scene, do you think you can get something out of it?"

"Is that Lazarus' phone?"

"Think so. Can't be sure."

"Okay, well. Let's find out."

Wylie puts on latex gloves, clears an area on his desk, and carefully removes the device from its evidence bag. He stays close while the young agent works, almost hovering – unable to help, but unwilling to leave. Wylie doesn't seem unhappy about it, however. Instead he grins, showing off a little as he removes the different parts with quick and efficient gestures.

"Okay, so. That's the SIM card. It's not broken, but uh – it's bent. Sorry. I can't get anything out of it, not when it looks like that."

"Can you repair it?"

"No. I mean, it can be done – just not by me," answers Wylie, biting his lip. "But – hmm, maybe Riley can? She's always been good with delicate stuff like this."

He frowns.

"Is that the colleague from Organised Crime you were talking about this morning?"

"Uh, yes."

He rubs his chin, wary of leaving his best lead – _their first real lead_ – in the hands of a stranger.

"Do you trust that she's good enough to do this?"

"Definitely. She's one of the most competent people I know," Wylie answers. "I would – I'd have trusted her with Michelle's life, if – if _she_ had been the one missing."

The young man's serious, earnest expression probably would have been enough to convince him, but the pain flickering in his words settles it. He nods.

"She's a bit prickly though," Wylie adds, awkward. "Uh, and probably not very happy with us right now. They won't be able to use Saltonstall to bring down the Blackmore network now that you found that guy in his basement."

He takes time – a few seconds, no more – to think about it, left thumb climbing up to tap on his lips.

"Did someone bring in Saltonstall's computer?" he asks, struck by a random thought.

"Uh – I'm, uh. Not sure," says Wylie, blinking owlishly. "I can check? Give me a sec to access the log."

He paces a little, fingers drumming against his thighs as he waits.

"Okay! Uh, yeah. It's in evidence downstairs. Want me to tell someone to bring it up here?"

"No," he answers. "I can get it myself. What I want you to do is call your friend, tell her if she can help us, we'll make it worth her while."

"Uh, okay."

"Great," he grins. "See you in ten."

He escapes, leaving behind a bewildered Wylie, and this time doesn't bother with the elevator, runs directly to the stairs.

 _You could have waited until you convinced Wylie's friend to help_ , whispers Lisbon in his mind as he runs down, every step echoing loudly against the walls. _They could have gone to the evidence room with you later, you didn't have to go downstairs now_ _– or alone._

"I know," he answers quietly. "But I made a promise earlier, remember? I intend to keep it."

By-passing the evidence room, he pushes the door to the main hall, then quickly moves to the locker room. With a fast glance around to make sure he's alone, he opens Lisbon's with quick, sure hands. Then he takes a deep breath, removes his wedding band for the last time, and drops it in the safe unit – a tiny spark of light against the cold, grey metal of the cramped space.

It looks so small and innocuous.

 _You don't have to do that_ , whispers Lisbon in his mind again.

He smiles, eyes cast downwards.

"I know," he repeats.

But she was right, he thinks. Heck, _Abbott_ was right.

 _When was he not?_ says Lisbon, teasing.

He smiles briefly, then lets the corners of his lips fall.

 _This has gone long enough._

And while that ring originally used to symbolise the love he and Angela shared, he's self-aware enough to know the meaning attached to it is now wider – more complex.

A reminder of his failure.

A promise made to his slain family.

An armour to keep life at bay.

Silent shackles to his quest of revenge – a quest he shared with _Lisbon_ , not Angela.

And since Lisbon was the one to keep him afloat when memories of blood and dreams of violence were drowning him, it feels – _fitting_ , perhaps – that she should hold onto this broken part of himself. Even if, by virtue of her absence, she can only own it metaphorically.

For now.

But it doesn't matter, doesn't it? It's still hers. After all, she already owns everything else. She has for years now, even in times when the words couldn't be spoken aloud.

One last look – then he slams the door, turns the lock, and walks back to the elevator.

 _Free_.

In a way.

Charming the ownership of Saltonstall's computer out of the evidence room attendant is child's play. When he comes back to the bullpen, hands full with electronics, a young black woman is waiting near Wylie's desk, arms crossed and frowning.

"Riley Mitchell?" he asks, carefully setting down the computer on Lisbon's desk. "Hi. I'm Patrick Jane."

"Hey," she says, ignoring his outstretched hand. "Coyote here said you'd make it worth my while. Better be true – you cost me big this morning. I'm _quite_ annoyed with you."

He grins briefly, delighted with her spunk – and by the way she keeps glancing at Wylie when the young man isn't looking.

"Oh, well we have to remedy that, then."

Riley smirks, looks at him up and down appraisingly – waiting for his offer. He points to the remnants of Lazarus' – _probably Lazarus'_ – phone on Wylie's desk.

"I need to know if you can get information out of that thing. The SIM card isn't in good shape but we have all the pieces – right?"

"Yeah, we do," nods Wylie.

"What do you need from it?" she asks.

" _Everything_ ," he answers, voice rough. "Everything you can find."

The woman stares at the broken pieces of the phone for a moment. He can see the interest on her face – clearly, she enjoys a challenge – but she then leans back and examines him the same way she did the phone just seconds ago.

Again.

It's a little intimidating. And he can hear Lisbon's chuckle in his mind as clearly as if she was by his side.

"Okay. So what do I get in exchange?"

If he wasn't so desperate, he'd point out how eager she seems to tackle that task, and how it might well be its own reward. But there's no use pretending – he _is_ desperate.

Besides, he already prepared a bribe.

"This," he says, patting the computer. "It's Saltonstall's. Contains a list of over a hundred people with connections to the Blackmore website – names, addresses. It should be fairly easy to link them to usernames, get those people to dish out the goods."

Riley rubs her chin.

"Was this approved upstairs?" she asks, eyeing the computer with a hungry expression.

 _Clever girl._

"Not yet. But it will. And if what you find on that phone helps me find Lisbon, I promise, I – "

"What if it doesn't?" she interrupts.

" – huh?"

He blinks, nonplussed.

"What if I don't find anything on this to help you find your missing agent?" Riley asks, crossing her arms over her chest again. "Are you going to give that computer to someone else and throw me to the wolves?"

" _No!_ Listen if you help, I – I will make it my personal mission to get you a commendation. Regardless of the results you get."

"I don't _need_ a commendation. I just need to know helping you two won't get me in trouble with my bosses."

"You can trust him, Riley," chimes Wylie. "Jane always finds a way to get what he wants. If he says he'll do something, he'll do it. You won't get in trouble – well, you won't get in trouble _for long_."

"And you can always blame me if someone complains," he offers. "I'll sort it out."

The woman considers them both in turn, then clicks her tongue and grabs a chair.

"Fine, I'll do it. Move away, boys. I need some space."

She drops her bag on Wylie's desk, takes out supplies – amongst them glue and a tiny screwdriver – and steals the sofa he took out of Abbott's office earlier. Wylie, blinking owlishly for a moment, grabs his laptop and settles at Lisbon's desk instead. He remains by their side a few minutes, pacing back and forth between them, but Riley's pointed glare convinces him to move back to the couch.

"Did someone tell you there's car oil in your hair? You really should get it cleaned out. And don't run away with that," she adds, pointing to Saltonstall's computer. "It's _mine_."

Wylie helpfully passes along a few tissues, taken from Lisbon's desk. He runs them through his hair. They come back dark and sticky, the acrid smell of gasoline burning his nostrils. He repeats the motion around his ears a few times. Enough to stop the dripping. Not enough to get clean.

Beyond the time it takes away from the dreaded waiting game, he doesn't care.

"Now what?" he mutters to himself.

 _Now you wait_ , chuckles Lisbon in his mind.

* * *

 **Next prompt: Fake**


	23. Hour 14: Fake - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** As promised, raising the rating to M as of this chapter. There will be no sex, I just wanted to make sure this story fits with proper rating regulation (don't mind me, I'm old school and survived two different FFnet purges, it left scars haha).

A very special thanks to **JayCee's RedGold** (if you ever read this) for the weapons expertise.

 **Warnings:** Visual hallucinations brought on by exhaustion and trauma, graphic depiction of violence, and as usual since this is a Lisbon chapter, heavy talk of religious concepts. If this triggers you, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Hour 14: Lisbon**  
 **Fake**

The burst of confidence she gets from Lazarus' startled reaction doesn't last.

Not that she expected it to. But that she was allowed the feeling at all – that she was allowed to get the upper hand, even just for a second, that she was allowed to _hope_ – is enough to loosen the tight grip of fear around her lungs.

She can _breathe_ again.

Of course, she's not out of the woods yet – quite literally, too. But even injured and on her own, she's not without resources.

 _Nice pun_ , chuckles Jane – and she can almost see him, standing there just behind Lazarus, arms crossed and with a cheeky grin on his lips.

She nearly rolls her eyes at him.

 _Stop distracting me. I need my focus._

And she knows that if he _was_ here, his grin would widen, and then he'd probably answer with another quip.

 _So you keep saying, Lisbon, but I don't see you making me go away_ , he whispers in her mind.

Like that one, for example.

The thought makes her so warm she could cry with relief. She doesn't know how this works. She doesn't know what causes his presence to feel so real. Be it hallucination, desperation, exhaustion, or madness – she doesn't care. _It helps._ It helps more than she can describe. Probably more than she can even comprehend. And right now, in her current circumstances? It's the only thing that matters.

"I don't believe in guardian angels," says Lazarus, interrupting her train of thoughts.

She nearly laughs out loud. _This_ , coming from the man who believes she can contact the spirits of dead people? Especially coming _now_ , when she feels so warm from Jane's ethereal support? This is, without a doubt, the funniest thing she heard today.

 _And here I thought I was doing a good job of entertaining you_ , grins Jane, two steps behind Lazarus. _I'm hurt, Lisbon_.

"Who are you _really_ talking to?"

Lazarus' voice anchors her back in reality. She stares him down, feeling reckless all of a sudden – perhaps for the first time taking the full measure of how desperate her situation is. The truth is, she has nothing more to lose.

 _Or perhaps you're just doing the sensible thing_ , points out Jane. _Don't show your fear_.

"Give me the food and water you promised first, please," she answers, keeping her words polite, but delivering them in firm voice tones. "Then we can talk about it."

"You are _not_ in a position to make demands!"

"But you said you would give them to me if I handcuffed my left wrist," she counters, waving her hand until the chains ring. "And I need to be _well_ to hear the spirits clearly. That's not gonna happen if I'm starving, dying of thirst, _and_ in pain."

Lazarus pinches his lips.

 _Careful, Lisbon. Be fearless, but don't push him too hard._

 _But he reacts positively to politeness_ , she thinks. _Someone like that would care how his word is perceived when he gives it. He'll do it._

 _You can't be sure of that!_

 _You're right, I can't. But I have faith._

"Fine," answers Lazarus, voice clipped. "Make sure to catch."

 _See?_ she smiles, quick as a flash – and as smug as possible, considering the circumstances.

She can almost see Jane's eyebrows disappearing up his forehead.

 _Well reasoned. I'm impressed_.

"Thank you," she answers aloud.

 _I learned from the best_.

Lazarus throws the water bottle first. She uncaps it, fumbling a little with her handcuffed hand, then takes a quick sip. The water glides down her throat so quickly she chokes and spends the next minute coughing.

 _Slowly_ , Jane reminds her.

 _I know_.

The second sip is soothing and wonderful, so much that she has to remind herself not to down the whole bottle in one go. Biting her lip, she screws the cap back on, then switches it to her left hand and glances at Lazarus. He looks disgusted.

No doubt the sounds she made as she was drinking weren't to his liking.

 _Well, it's not going to get better when you eat what's in that bag_ , whispers Jane, amused.

"May I have some food now, please?" she asks, mindful of keeping him in a good mood.

He tosses the bag towards her without a word. Its light weight makes it easier to catch than the bottle of water. She tears the paper apart with her teeth, careful not to drop the whole thing in the process, and finds another muffin at the bottom.

 _Cranberries. Meh._

 _Shush. I_ like _cranberry muffins. Besides, I'll be the one eating it and this is the best I'll get for now, so. No complaints.  
_

She takes a small bite. The flavours explode on her tongue, tart fruits in sweet, buttery batter – so strong she's nearly overwhelmed, nauseated with its immediacy. She closes her eyes, juggles with the different items she holds in her hands until they're inverted and secure in her grip, takes another sip of water, then a deep breath.

 _Okay. Better._

Jane makes a humming noise.

 _What?_

 _I hate to bring this up now_ , he whispers. _But very soon you'll have to say something convincing enough to hold his attention. Better take some time to think about it now, before he starts expecting answers_.

She keeps her eyes closed and her expression as smooth as possible, despite the deep unease settling in the pit of her stomach.

 _I know._

 _Well, let's revise what you know of him and his father, hmm?_

She bends her knees slightly, trying to keep as much weight as possible off her ankle, as Jane quickly rattles a series of facts and her memory supplies detailed pictures of what the basement looked like. Wincing when she remembers the rotting corpse hidden in the secret boiler room, she ends up tuning him – tuning _everything_ – out.

 _Jane, stop._

– _and you need to remember that his doctor's name was Hannigan, like your colleague, the one who punched me in the nose, oh and don't forget about the jazz, either Lazarus or his father were fans, I'd bet on his father since most of the vinyls were from the 70s and Lazarus spent a lot more time in the secret room than in the basement –_

She ignores him. Keeps her eyes closed, finishes eating the muffin and drains the bottle of water. Carefully refuses to think again of what was in that boiler room.

 _Please stop. You're starting to panic again._

 _I'm not panicking_ , he pouts. _I'm trying to be helpful! What if you forget something important that could save your life? Like the bottles of pests repellent on the shelves, did you notice how much liquid they held? And how about_ –

"For God's sake, just stop!"

" _Who_ are you talking to?" asks Lazarus intently, vibrating with impatience.

She opens her eyes, stares him down. This time he stares right back.

Expectant.

She bites her lip, then nods, and drops both bottle and paper bag at her feet, one after the other – a distraction, a really simple one, so that she can move the nail hidden between the fingers of her hooked left hand to her free right one.

 _Time's up. Let's do this._

"There are a lot of spirits here," she says, eyes roaming around the property. "It's pretty crowded. Many people following you around."

Lazarus squints, looks uncertain.

"There's only one I want contact with."

"Yes. Your father – Joseph?"

The man flinches – a mistake. She jerks back.

"No, wait – _Joe_. Like you. Right? Joe, that's what he wanted people to call him."

"Yes," says Lazarus, guarded.

"He's here," she says, trying to mimic what she calls 'Jane's psychic look' – that far-away expression he often used these past weeks, mouth slack and eyes slightly unfocussed. "He's saying that – you were interrupted earlier, but – now he's glad to have a second chance to speak with you."

 _Butter him up, Lisbon. He's doubting you now, you cannot allow that to continue._

She almost raises her right hand, but remembers at the last moment about the nail – waves her left fingers instead, hoping he didn't notice her hesitation.

"He didn't have time to tell you he feels better now."

"Better?" frowns Lazarus.

"Yes," she says. "He says that – the pain he felt when Dr. Hannigan was taking care of him is all gone."

Jane, arms crossed behind the killer –

– _imagination, hallucination, astral projection, she doesn't care, he's here, he's_ here _–_

– nods reassuringly.

 _Keep going_ , he whispers in her mind. _You're doing good._

The sun shines through him, dissolving the vision as quickly as it appeared. But she can still _feel_ him. She's not alone – she _has_ to believe it.

"He feels better, but he misses jazz," she adds on a whim. "That's – that's something you used to do with him, isn't it? The two of you, listening to jazz music together?"

It's a hit in the dark – one that could get her killed if she misses. For a long moment, the man remains motionless, dark eyes boring a hole directly through her soul. But just as she starts shivering from fear, pain, and exhaustion, Lazarus' expression clears – almost takes on a dreamy quality. He's hooked. She lets out a small sigh of relief.

 _It landed. Thank God_.

"Daddy," he breathes. "You're _here_."

 _So gullible_ , chuckles Jane.

She doesn't let it appear on her face, but privately she agrees. If the man wasn't a dangerous killer currently pointing a gun on her, she could almost pity him.

"You've been keeping him here," she says instead. "He wants to know why."

 _Last time you asked that question, you were interrupted by a phone call_ , whispers Jane.

 _Well, maybe this time I'll get to hear what this is all about_ , she thinks, letting her gaze glide towards the spot where she can almost – _almost_ – see him grinning back at her.

"There's _something_ in me," says Lazarus. "A voice. And when it starts, I can't ignore it. I can't think about anything else until I go out – "

She does her best to repress the shivers climbing up her spine.

" – find someone – "

He's never looked so deranged than he does in this moment.

" – and then it goes away again. For a while."

He drops his arm, as if the weight of the weapon was suddenly too much to hold, and stares at a point a few feet over her head.

"Is that your voice, daddy?" he asks to the sky. "Is that you in me? Are you sending me out? Am I doing this for you?"

And then, suddenly struck by inspiration, she knows what to do.

 _Please don't do that, Lisbon_ , whispers Jane immediately. _Remember what happened last time you took him on? He'll kill you this time, you know it._

 _He'll kill me anyway if I don't find a way to escape._

 _But_ – _if you miss – if you fail – think of our child, think of_ –

 _Jane?_

 _Yes?_

She swallows.

 _I love you, but please shut up._

Because right now, the time for doubt is over. She needs to trust herself – trust that her trick will work, that this is the sign she was waiting for. That she can get out of this alive.

That she hasn't been abandoned by God.

She drops her chin to her chest and starts muttering. No words – incoherent whispers, something sibilant, enticing. Something to grab Lazarus' attention and lull him into a sense of safety, coax him forward.

A small head shake and her hair fall over her eyes. She uses it to glance at him now and then, unseen.

"What are you saying?" he asks, and she can hear the confusion in his voice.

 _Perfect._

Poised to strike, she waits – and in the meantime, keeps whispering, waiting for him to take the bait. Hoping that he will. Terrified that he won't.

And then he does.

Takes one step forward, then a second one.

He raises the gun to hip level, too – but that's okay, that's expected. That's what she's counting on.

 _Come on!_

When he takes a third step towards her – only ten feet from her now, _so close_ , and yet too far away still – she allows the shivers she tried to stop earlier to run their course through her body. It's subtle at first. A slight tremor in her shoulders, fingers of her left hand shaking, clearly on display against the chain of her handcuffs. Then it becomes stronger, arms muscles vibrating, legs barely holding her upright.

Or so she hopes. The more helpless she looks, the less guarded he'll be.

" _Joe, my boy_ ," she calls between two whispers, doing her best to keep her voice low and gravelly.

Lazarus' expression is priceless – disbelief and hope and childish glee, all mixed into one package. She has to bite on her lip, stop herself from laughing hysterically. Keeps up the whispers, the shivering – and slowly slips her left hand out of the handcuff, doing her best to distract his attention away from it with the rest of her body language.

"Daddy?"

" _Come_ ," she calls again, voice dissolving into a mass of sibilant sounds again.

"Daddy, I don't – I don't understand what you're saying," he asks, taking a few more steps towards her.

Five feet away now. She needs, _she needs_ –

" _Closer!_ "

– just a bit more. She glares at him through her fringe.

And something must peek through because Lazarus suddenly pales, crosses the last few steps hastily.

With a scream of rage and agony, she lunges and jabs the nail into his left eye.

He howls. She pushes the gun away from her midsection just in time – her battle-cry startles him into shooting once, but then pain makes him shot thrice more, every bullet heating the skin near her ribs, missing their target by less than an inch. The barrel of the gun – a Beretta, she curses – burns her fingers, and the slide slices across her palm, and one of the boiling hot casings hits her forehead just over the left eyebrow, and she screams again – pure pain this time – but _cannot let go_ , not now, _not ever_ , not until she's safe and back with her team, back with Jane.

And Lazarus may be taller but he isn't _stronger_. He doesn't have her training. Doesn't have her experience with pain, or even battle.

More importantly, he doesn't have her desperation.

She keeps screaming, pulls and pushes, kicks and punches, turns herself into a relentless, struggling demon until Lazarus, still yowling, falls on the ground.

He looks up, hate and fear mingling in his eyes – the intact one, black and foreboding, and the injured one, a mess of blood and tears, leaking fluids down his cheek.

She stands over him, his gun in her mangled hands.

"You _tricked_ me!" he hollers, voice full of pain and disgust. " _You burst my eye!_ "

She laughs – it quickly turns into a cough. Blood drips from the wounds on her left palm – she can feel it slowly trickling on the inside of her wrist. Lazarus writhes on the ground, whimpering pitifully, both hands now on his injured eye.

"Don't move," she warns him.

He doesn't listen – keeps rolling from one side to the other, wailing curses and incoherent sobbing.

"Don't move!" she repeats. "Or I'll shoot you!"

At those words, he rolls to his knees and bares his teeth, his remaining eye throwing a glare so dark, so full of hatred, that she doesn't think about it twice and pulls the trigger.

 _Click_.

For a second they both stare at the empty weapon, frozen in disbelief – then Lazarus is on his feet and charging on her, hitting her injured ribs so painfully she stops breathing. Acting on instinct, she hits his head with the gun as hard as she can.

He drops over her, heavy and motionless, his breathing shallow and erratic in her ear. She frantically pushes him off then crawls away, held together by adrenaline alone, until she reaches a tree and pulls herself to her feet.

One last look behind – Lazarus hasn't moved from where he fell earlier, mouth open on a soundless scream – then she runs.

* * *

 **Next prompt: Mountain**


	24. Hour 14: Mountain - Jane

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** You're all so sweet. Thank you so much for your reviews. They keep me going in hard times, which are plenty lately, and I cannot tell you how much they help. (¡Muchas gracias, fan de TM que escribe en español!)

As of this chapter we step into Act 3! There will be 31 chapters total (30 chapters plus an epilogue to tie loose ends and cover a tiny bit of White Orchids), which means after this one there's 7 chapters left. Though I can't promise anything, I'll do my best to finish this story before the end of the year.

 **Warnings:** Detailed description of large bloodstains and horrifying smells (see early Lisbon chapters). If any of this triggers you, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Hour 14: Jane**  
 **Mountain**

He has many virtues. Patience, unless working his way through a long con, isn't one of them.

Nonetheless, he waits.

He waits as Abbott comes and goes, praises his conception of a bribe with disbelief lacing his voice tones, and then assigns Tork to clear permissions with the higher ups – because perish the thought of bureaucracy ever running out of paperwork.

He waits as Riley Mitchell works slowly, meticulously, unwilling to be rushed, moving at a snail's pace he can barely withstand. And he has looked over her shoulder, he's convinced she's doing exactly everything that is needed to repair the broken phone – but _damn it_.

He waits as a couple of local police officers find the owner of Keller's last known address and bring her in – and almost ties his own body to the couch to stop himself from jumping down her throat, demand information, and scare her half to death in the process.

He waits, nearly out of his mind with worry and impatience, as the woman is proven unable to give them anything more than they already have.

He waits and makes tea. Paces compulsively. Sits on his couch for a moment, then jumps up again two seconds later, restless. Makes coffee for everyone, then tea for himself again. Every glance at the clock makes him wonder what is _wrong_ with him – surely his conception of time cannot be so skewed? No. The clock is to blame. Making a complete coffee run around the bullpen _had_ to have taken more than ten minutes.

 _Right?_

Meanwhile, Cho and Abbott lock themselves in Abbott's office. He's tempted to barge in once he notices them, but the way Cho stands rigid and contained, glancing at him every now and then, makes it plain they're in the middle of an argument. One that may or may not have to do with himself, either his attitude or his decision to retire from police work – and the truth is, he stands on his last nerve already. He doesn't have what it takes to deal with more conversations like the one he had in Abbott's car earlier. Not right now.

So he stays on his couch, and waits some more.

Then Wylie makes a short high pitched noise, and he jumps to his side.

"What did you find?" he asks, vibrating with barely contained edginess.

"It could be nothing," answers Wylie, his enlarged eyes still glued to the screen. "But – I wasn't getting anywhere with the information we had on Keller. So I did a background check?"

" _Yes?_ "

"Well, this is where it gets weird."

Wylie points to the computer, where the picture of an old man – clearly taken from old newspapers – glares back.

"Not Keller junior but his father, Joseph Keller senior? Fifteen years ago, there was a string of killings in the area. Local PD took a _hard_ look at Keller senior – really liked him for them. But they only had a circumstantial case, never found any conclusive evidence."

He doesn't need to look at the picture of the man twice – the cold expression on his face is enough for him to confirm _that_ hunch.

"So Lazarus' father is a serial killer."

"Sounds like it," nods Wylie.

"Could they be working as a team?"

"Uh, I don't know."

"Why not? They're already work partners, according to his business card."

"No, I mean – it's definitely possible," says Wylie, looking alarmed. "But the killings I told you about? Case went cold. Local PD kept watch, but Keller senior fell off the map maybe – two or three years ago? Hasn't been seen since."

"You think he's dead?"

"Yeah," Wylie nods. "I mean, I can't be sure, but – you know."

He chews on the inside of his cheek.

"Well, guess now we know for sure whose spirit Lazarus is trying to contact," he mutters.

A glance towards Abbott's office finds it empty. He frowns. Where did they go?

 _Talk about the worst moment to disappear._

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a second.

 _Well – perhaps not the_ worst _._

"Do you have an address on file?" he asks, hoping the rigidity of his facial muscles won't betray his inner thoughts.

"Let me check," answers Wylie. "Uh, yep! He has a place not too far out of town, near Lake Pickasee."

He waits _one whole second and a half_ , staring at the young analyst who smiles back blandly, unmoving, before he decides he waited long enough for one day.

"So – can I have it?"

"Can you have what?"

" _The address_ , Wylie."

"Uh – to be honest, I don't feel comfortable giving it to you."

He blinks.

"Why not?"

Wylie blinks back.

"Because you don't carry a gun. If I give you the address, you'll just rush out. That'll put yourself _and_ Lisbon in danger. We all know you're not the kind of guy who likes to follow safety protocol, so – we've been warned to follow it for you."

 _Thwarted by your own legend_ , chuckles Lisbon in his mind.

Riley snickers behind his back. He feels like he could _scream_.

"Okay. Well, what if _you_ come with me?"

"I can't," answers Wylie. "There's still two running programs I need to supervise. But – hey, Tork?"

"Yeah?"

The short man, coming back from another smoking break, stops by the analyst's desk. The overpowering smell of cheap cigarette makes his eyes water. He take a discreet step back.

"Have you seen Abbott?" asks Wylie.

"Uh, no – I was looking for him, just finished what he asked me to do. The thing with Saltonstall's computer? Mitchell is allowed to have it."

Riley lets out a small whoop behind them. He ignores her.

"So you're between tasks right now?" he asks.

"Well there's a few things I could do, but – "

"Never mind that," he interrupts. "We have an address for Lazarus. You coming or what?"

"Me? Don't you want to wait for Cho or something?" says Tork, both eyebrows raised.

"Do you see Cho anywhere around here?"

"No, but – "

"Better go. I'll tell Abbott about it when he gets back," says Wylie, glancing between both of them back and forth.

A few more seconds of hesitation – then Tork sighs, every line of his body screaming reluctance.

"Fine. You got an address?"

"Good man," he grins. "I'll wait for you in the parking lot."

Tork doesn't seem surprised to find him waiting in the driver's seat near the main entrance. He simply sighs again – resignation this time – and hops in, then programs the GPS sitting on the dashboard.

 _Good. He's learning._

The drive should have been twenty minutes long. They make it in ten. Tork looks a bit green as they get out of the vehicle, but he couldn't care less – as soon as they sees the dirty courtyard with its haphazard piles of wood, scrap metal, and old tyres, he knows. There isn't any proof of it, at least not at first glance, but he can feel it in his bones.

This is the place.

This is where Lazarus brought Lisbon.

His first instinct is to run to the house, intent on bulldozing whatever – or _whoever_ – gets in his way until he reaches her. But the impulse dies down before it's allowed to take hold – because then he notices the front door, slightly ajar. The disturbed trail of grass moving towards the other end of the property. The small branches tossed aside on the rocky pathway, some of them cleanly broken in half, and the uneven scuff marks in the dirt.

Worst of all, he notices the dark red, shining handprint around chest level on a tree near the house, and twin marks on a wooden fence fifty feet away.

He swallows, throat itching with a sob he cannot allow to escape.

"She won't be in there," he rasps, unable to look away from the blood smeared across the light grey tree trunk.

"What?"

Tork, already halfway to the door, turns a questioning glance on him.

"She's not in there," he repeats, then clears his voice. "She escaped."

"How do you – "

He points to the disturbed pathway, then to the tree.

"Oh my God. Is that _blood?_ "

"It's dry but still red. She hasn't been out long – maybe an hour or two. And the front door is open, that means Lazarus found out about her escape and ran after her."

"No blood on the doorknob or around the frame, so – yeah. You're probably right," says Tork. "I'm calling for backup. Stay there. We'll find her, Jane, just – _stay there_."

The man runs across the ground, reaches the bloodied fence in no time, then stops. Looks around, scratches his head, but doesn't move one way or another. He rolls his eyes.

"Go left!" he yells.

"Why left?" asks Tork from afar.

"It's the way to the city. That's where Lisbon would go!"

"How would she know? We can't see it from here. She was unconscious when he kidnapped her, but even if she hadn't been he wouldn't allow her to see where she is, right?"

He rolls his eyes again.

 _This is ridiculous._

"No, but she would notice the tyre tracks on the ground. They all go to the left, right? _Ergo_ , the city!"

The man doesn't look especially convinced, but he turns left nonetheless, soon disappears behind the shrubbery. He counts five more seconds, then jumps up on the porch and rushes inside.

Tork won't find Lisbon on the road, he already knows that. The blood on the tree was quite fresh, but not fresh _enough_. And if she was injured enough to leave handprints everywhere – if she was injured enough _to be careless_ about the handprints she was leaving everywhere – then she couldn't have gone that far. Not on foot, even over two hours.

If she had still been around when they got there, he's confident he would have heard the engine of Lazarus' vehicle. Perhaps even voices, shouting or screaming, if Lisbon had enough energy left to put on a fight. But since he got out of the car there has only been birds, and wind, and a river not too far away, and the drag of Tork's footsteps on the dirt path.

No car.

Nor any kind of human noise, for that matter.

And so maybe he's wrong. Maybe Lisbon managed to hide successfully. Maybe Tork will find her as he scours the road, looking for more scuff marks and handprints. But the most likely possibility is that Lazarus found and subdued her, then dragged her to another location.

One he can maybe find an address for in Lazarus' house.

 _I hate to bring this up, but – you know there's another possibility_ , whispers Lisbon in his mind.

"No, there isn't," he answers aloud, teeth clenched.

 _I'm just saying it may not be an address you're looking for. Maybe it's just a quiet place where he can –_

"NO!" he shouts, then takes a deep breath and clenches his teeth. "I _will_ find you. _Alive_. Just you watch."

The inside of Lazarus' home is – _normal_. Almost disappointingly so. Furniture from the 70s. Hunting trophies on the walls. An old cathodic television covered in fake wood panels, slightly depressed on the right where it has been banged repeatedly. A large bed with plush, navy blankets. Garish yellow and pink curtains in the kitchen – cherries faded by sunlight.

He goes through the residence in a frenzy, eager to find details of Lazarus' personal life – eager to find a clue, any clue, as to where he now holds Lisbon. But as he opens drawers and cupboards and wardrobes, scatters their content in the hope that they may contain something useful, he realises there is no personal life to be found.

Lazarus' use of this house appears to be strictly functional, with very little room for leisure. The kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom areas are lived-in and spotless clean – traces of regular human activity can be found in all three, and the slightly uneven floor shows the path of countless comings and goings. But all other rooms seem to have been abandoned. Thick dust covers everything in the living room, including the wooden flooring, and he doesn't even consider exploring the second floor – the staircase is covered in dirt and old spider webs. Nobody went up there in quite some time.

This isn't a home.

This is the unsettling and desolate lair of a serial killer – a man who only knows life by going through learned, practised, empty motions.

A man who only knows enjoyment through negative space.

And this man currently holds Lisbon.

He presses his palms hard on his eyes for a moment, then takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders – tries to distract himself from the terror threatening to wash his cognitive functions at sea.

 _Where_ did _he hold her?_

A quick examination of the entrance hall reveals a second staircase no doubt leading to the basement, tucked to the side and easy to miss. The grey paint on the walls gives off a sinister vibe, and the reinforced door with strong locks down the flight of stairs sends shivers up his spine.

The door is ajar. He bites on the inside of his cheek.

 _You should wait for Tork_ , whispers Lisbon in his mind.

"Why? If there's information in there on where to find you – " he asks aloud, then winces when his voice bounces loud against the walls.

 _No matter how you look at it, it's a crime scene down there. It'll be upsetting –_

"So?"

– _and you're not good with forensics. Especially when you're upset. What if you mess up evidence?_

He chances a look outside – Tork isn't anywhere in sight. Then he clenches his fists, bracing himself, and walks down the stairs.

 _The only evidence we need, Lisbon, is the one that'll help us find you._

The smell hits his nose before he reaches the door – an overpowering, metallic stench of blood, with an underlying current of chemicals and gunpowder, and other revolting things he cannot identify. He wavers, one hand against the wall, as an old fear seeps back into his mind. One he thought had been put to rest alongside Red John's corpse – in vain, as he now stands before a closed door yet again, terrified of what he may find on the other side.

 _Hey. Don't let fear rob you of your senses_ , whispers Lisbon, and he can just see the way her nose wrinkles in annoyance.

 _What?_

 _I'm not dead in that room, Jane. You saw the blood outside. You know I escaped._

He swallows, harsh and painful.

"Right," he mumbles, before pushing the door open – and immediately wishing he didn't.

The sight that greets him is horrifying. From the large circle of congealed blood in the middle of the room to the bloody footprints on the carpeted floor, the red smears over all possible surfaces, the puddle of vomit near another door further back, and the bullets embedded in the wood of the overturned benchwork – it's too much. _Too much_.

 _He shot her. The son of a bitch_ shot _her._

He almost loses it – almost sobs, almost runs out, almost bends over to add his own pool of sickness on the ground. The only thing that stops his impending meltdown is the thought that, the longer he waits to explore that room, the longer Lisbon remains captive of a serial killer.

And ultimately it's the same thought that propels him forward, stepping around the blood like a ballet dancer, until he reaches the bookshelf with a wooden compartment covered in small, red fingerprints.

Lisbon explored this room before he did. And that's good. That gives him hope that she found something to trick Lazarus into believing she has powers.

She certainly did if she stayed alive this long, right? Gabriel wasn't as lucky.

Gabriel didn't survive being shot.

Gabriel didn't even survive six hours.

 _Don't think about Gabriel._

He clenches his teeth, then flips the compartment open. A stack of letters fall out, one of them smeared with blood. He picks it up, then grins briefly – a credit card bill mailed to a different address in Austin. He doesn't know how useful it'll prove to be – it seems unlikely that Lazarus would bring an injured woman to a location in the middle of a large city – but it's something.

It's _something_.

He takes a picture of the bill with his phone, but when trying to send it to Wylie, he quickly realises there is no signal down here – Lazarus either lives too far away from a tower, or something inside the walls is cutting out Wi-Fi access. He hesitates, shuffling on his feet, glances at the second door he didn't have time to peek through.

 _You should go out and text now_ , whispers Lisbon in his mind. _Just in case. You can come back to the basement after_.

"I guess," he whispers back.

He leaves the door wide open as he walks out – the place badly needs to be aired out and if he has to go back down after calling Wylie, he's damn well going to make sure there won't be another panic attack. A fresh breeze greets him as he steps on the porch. He allows himself a second to breathe deeply, to dispel the nausea lingering in the pit of his stomach, then he takes out his phone again.

Three missed calls, all from Wylie.

 _Damn it._

He selects the young agent's number in his contacts, but doesn't have time to call – a loud bang echoes somewhere close, then three more in quick succession. Cold sweat breaks over his back. He recognises the noise all too well.

 _Gunshots. Those were gunshots._

"Tork?" he calls, voice quivering.

No answer. He runs to the road, trying to figure out where the gunshots came from – _did Tork find Lazarus? had Lisbon been hiding on the road all along?_ – but when he reaches the fence, he can see the agent far away on the left, running back towards the house.

"You okay, Jane?" he yells.

"I'm fine!" he answers. "Where did that come from?"

Tork answers something garbled by distance and lack of breath, but even if the words were intelligible, he isn't listening anymore. A large flock of birds cross the sky overhead, coming from the right where a tall mountain looms, and there is no doubt in his mind.

 _The mountain._

That's where he brought Lisbon.

* * *

 **Next prompt: Animals**


	25. Hour 15: Animals - Lisbon

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.**_

 **A/N:** For Anya, who sent a lovely message right when I needed it most. Thank you for your kind words, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

On another note, it's September 23 so happy TM anniversary to all of you! :)

 **Warnings:** Mention of spiders and frogs. Light description of Lisbon's injuries and pain, a few depressive thoughts, but nothing too graphic. If I forgot to warn for something, tell me and I'll add it to the list. In the meantime, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Hour 15: Lisbon**  
 **Animals**

 _You should have killed him._

Jane's voice comes quiet on her left, where golden rays of sunshine fall to the ground between the trees.

"Maybe I have," she says, making her way over rocks and dead leaves.

 _You should have stayed and made sure._

She doesn't answer – aware that he's right, and unwilling to admit it out loud.

The wind picks up, pushing at her back and rattling the naked branches overhead, bringing to her nose the earthy scent of decay. She keeps running – or rather, limping as fast as she can, hindered both by pain and the uneven ground. Her socks are wet and caked with mud, the fabric chafing against her skin with every step. She pulls on them every other minute when they threaten to slip off, afraid to lose this last flimsy protection against the harsh forest soil.

 _You should have made sure_ , insists Jane.

"I'm not like you," she growls under her breath.

Jane stops walking, startled, and disappears from view.

 _What's that supposed to mean?_

His voice comes from behind her. She doesn't look.

"Anyway, it's too late to do something about it," she says, ignoring his question, keeping her eyes on the ground. "It's not like I can run back there and get the drop on him now."

Jane reappears a few feet ahead, on her left. His frown is a blurry battlefield of discontent and worry.

 _You're acting weird, Lisbon. What's going on?_

She shakes her head, busy trying to step over a large root. Pain shoots through her leg as she stumbles. She grits her teeth, keeps moving.

 _Talk to me._

"I'm fine."

 _Something isn't fine._

"Everything hurts, Jane."

 _That's not it either. Stop deflecting and tell me what's on your mind._

She presses her lips together, then sighs.

"No way out of that one, huh?" she mutters to herself.

Jane chuckles.

"I don't know," she admits. "I just – when he jumped on me, I thought that was the end. After that, instinct took over, and – I ran."

 _I thought your instinct was to run towards danger, not away from it._

"That's training, not instinct. You should know that – you're the first to run away whenever there's a hint of danger!"

 _Not you, though. So what was different this time?_

She growls again.

"You're really gonna make me say it out loud?"

Jane doesn't answer, but his raised eyebrows speak for themselves.

"I _panicked,_ okay? I just – I panicked. It made me forget everything. Training. Common sense. Everything."

He blinks in and out of existence, surprise flashing over his features.

 _But – you never panic._

"I'm _allowed_ to panic in highly stressful situations, Jane. I'm human, just like everybody else."

The words leave a bitter taste in her mouth. She stops for a moment, out of breath, and leans against a tree. Eyes closed, the forest sounds seem that much louder, her pain that much sharper. Her ribs are fine for now, at least as long as she doesn't breathe too hard, but her ankle throbs angrily, her hands are on fire, and the burn over her eyebrow itches in the most unpleasant way. She sighs.

 _You should pick up a weapon in case he comes after you_ , says Jane. _A rock, a stick. Anything you could use against him_. _Even a small one might help._

She snorts, raises a mangled palm.

"Do you really think I could hold anything right now? With _these_ hands? No. If he catches up with me, I'm done."

 _Don't say that._

"It's the truth."

 _I would still like it better if you didn't say that._

She sighs. The thought isn't a comforting one, but lying to herself about the probable outcome of another confrontation with Lazarus would only lead to more panic if – _once_ – he starts chasing her again.

 _Lisbon –_

"I can only fight for so long, Jane," she whispers. "Please don't be angry. It's just the way of the world."

 _It didn't stop you from being angry with me when I was the one telling you that, didn't it?_

The bark is rough against her cheek. Birds make peaceful noises somewhere over her head. She doesn't want to open her eyes – but then a branch cracks loudly somewhere nearby and she jumps, all senses on alert.

 _It's okay_ , says Jane, voice tones quiet. _Probably just a wild animal_.

"Is that supposed to reassure me?" she asks, breath coming in short bursts. "Anything could be in those woods! Bears. Wildcats. Wolves – "

 _Wolves don't attack people unless cornered. Bears don't attack unless threatened first. You'll be fine._

"Don't think I didn't notice you trying to deflect my attention from the wildcats."

 _They're predators, that's true, but they're – shy. Afraid of humans, I think._

"You _think?_ You're not sure?"

 _Yes, well. I only know what you know, remember. If you were close to a lake I'd say mind the gators –_

"The _gators?!_ "

– _but there's no lake nearby, so you should be fine._

She swallows hard.

"Never mind Lazarus. Wildlife's going to kill me first."

Jane chuckles gently, hair shining in the sunlight.

 _Then move, Teresa. Get yourself to safety._

One last look around and she starts walking again – slowly at first, then picking up speed as she rebuilds pain tolerance. The soft, spongy soil disgusts her, but at least the moss she steps on isn't a further source of harm. She can do this.

 _Yes, you can_ , says Jane, smiling.

Eyes on the ground, she doesn't immediately realise when it starts slanting again, the downward slope perceptible only in the way she slips and slides more often. But when the joyful sounds of trickling water reaches her ears, she looks up – and freezes mid-step. A clearing opens just a few feet ahead of her, the large trees becoming saplings, then bushes, then disappearing altogether. Down a steep earthy ridge, she can see the sun bouncing off the waves of a medium-wide stream. And on the other side, up the riverbank –

"Is that _grass?_ " she asks aloud, quivering hope infused in every syllable.

 _Hard to tell_ , answers Jane, squinting. _It's very yellow_.

"We're in February. Of course it's yellow. I think it's grass."

 _Well, it could be grass_.

"Maybe even a lawn. It doesn't look as tall as wild grass."

 _Could be a lawn._

"If it's a lawn, then there must be a house nearby. People. _A phone!_ "

 _Yes. Perhaps._

She looks at Jane from the corner of her eyes.

"You know, you're not very reassuring right now."

He shuffles on his feet, shrugging with one shoulder.

 _I'm more concerned about how you'll get there. That slope looks very steep. And it's impossible to say how deep the water goes from here. Then there's the riverbank to climb on the other side_ –

She pinches her lips.

"One problem at a time," she mutters.

Jane snorts. She smiles, rueful.

 _But you're right._ _ _With a bit of effort, you should get there just fine._ As long as you don't try to take on a gator.  
_

"Shut up!"

Her voice echoes loudly in the woods, scaring birds away – their fluttering wings and indignant squawks reminding her of the necessity to keep quiet. She waits, fearful, all sense on alert, until the forest chatter becomes peaceful again. Then she lets out a breath of relief, hobbles the last few steps until she reaches the clearing, and carefully makes her way to the edge of the ridge.

And stares.

Jane lets out an impressed whistle.

 _That's – pretty steep. You sure you wanna go down there?_

"Do you see a bridge anywhere?"

 _No_ , admits Jane.

She swallows – wishing she could lean on something while she ponders her options, take the weight off her ankle, and relieve the tired muscles in her good leg.

"Well then."

 _Lisbon, wait._

Jane peers at her from the left, just out of touching range, and waves an arm towards the river. Light shines through his worried expression, but she ignores the ethereal effect in favour of trying to figure out what he's pointing at.

 _It's too wide to cross here_ , he says gently, when she fails to figure it out on her own. _If you were in perfect form, sure. But not with your injuries. You need to go upstream, find some place where you can see the bottom of the river through the water. That way the current won't sweep you away_.

"I can do that from down there," she frowns – stubborn.

 _Not the best idea. The riverbank looks slippery and full of rocks. If you fall, you could hit your head and drown. Not to mention your path was pretty direct from Lazarus' shack back there. He's likely to come down this way and see your footprints in the mud._

She chews on the inside of her cheek, but there isn't any way around the facts he offers.

"Damn it. I hate it when you're right."

 _Technically, you're the one who's right._

"Details," she says, waving a hand and hobbling back to take cover under the trees. "Left then?"

Jane nods.

"Okay."

Her notion of time cannot be trusted – so close to a tangible goal, so close to _safety_ , she struggles with the notion of patience and every new step seems to take hours. It doesn't help that Jane's idea of distracting her from the pain is to point out all the small creatures she hadn't noticed so far. Birds and squirrels aren't so bad, but she cuts his rambles short when he starts talking about frogs in the stream and spiders nesting in the nearby bushes.

"Stop! My skin is crawling enough already, I don't want to think about it!"

 _You nearly walked right into them!_ he protests, both hands up.

"Just be quiet!"

 _Fine._

Jane disappears somewhere on her right as she makes her way along the river, limping her way through tall grass, and for a while she's grateful for it. But soon enough silence feels worse than his constant chattering, and the loneliness is unbearable.

"Talk to me?" she asks, eyes half-closed, breathless.

 _I thought you wanted me to be quiet._

"Please, Jane. Don't do this to me. Not now."

He reappears on her right – walking beside her as if he never left. And though she is aware of how ridiculous that sounds – _he's not real, he's not real_ , chants a distant portion of her brain – she feels better for it.

"Thank you," she whispers.

Jane smiles.

 _You know, I've been thinking. You said something earlier –_

"Hmm?"

– _something about how you aren't like me. I was wondering what you meant?_

She bites her lip, keeps her eyes on the ground, and carefully avoids the jagged rock underfoot. The river offers a soothing white noise in the background, but while she appreciates the stress decrease, she fears the fog of exhaustion lingering around the edges of her mind.

"It's nothing."

 _Doesn't seem like nothing._

"It's just – "

She hesitates, pulls on her socks again, then hisses when a stray branch hits her palm. The wound isn't bleeding anymore but the flesh is raw and inflamed, and the pain pulses up to her elbow. She clenches her teeth, tears pooling in her eyes.

"Not now. I just – just want to find help now. Get out of here. Okay?"

 _Okay, Lisbon. Let's do that._

"Yeah?"

He smiles at her, giving off an impression of sadness.

 _Yes. Let's cross over.  
_

She swallows back her tears, wipes her eyes in an angry gesture – she won't break down, not now, even though she's aware the more she waits, the worse it will get – and peers down the ridge. The stream rushes in the riverbed faster than she likes, but at least she can see the rocky bottom below two feet of water.

"Doesn't look that deep."

Jane hums, tapping one finger against his lips.

"I think we can do it," she adds, frowning in concentration.

 _We can certainly try._

She nods and hobbles once more to the edge – then freezes and looks around, frantic.

"No gators, right?"

 _No gators_ , confirms Jane.

She sighs in relief.

"Walk me through it?" she asks, teeth chattering – from fear, pain, or exhaustion, she isn't sure anymore.

 _Sit down first. It'll be easier. Careful with your ribs. Keep your hands on your chest and let yourself slide until you reach the riverbank. Good foot first._

Mud seeps into her trousers and up her shirt as she obeys Jane's instructions. Focussed on controlling the fall, she barely feels it. Rocks scratch at her legs, roots pull on her clothes, then get tangled in her hair, but it doesn't matter. The small screech she lets out when her toes finally touch the water is both shock and victory.

" _So cold!_ "

 _It's February, what did you expect?_ chuckles Jane.

"I won't feel my legs anymore if I go in there!"

 _With your ankle, that should be a relief._

Eyes scrunched up, she cannot stop herself from letting out a small whine of defeat.

 _It's okay, Lisbon. You can do it._

"I don't _want_ to."

 _Lisbon._

"I'm not being childish!" she says, wiping the sweat off her forehead – then hissing in pain when she grazes the burn over her eyebrow. "I just don't want to catch hypothermia over everything else."

 _Lisbon._

"And with my injuries I'll probably trip and fall. Make things worse."

 _Lisbon!_

"What?"

 _Open your eyes._

She opens one of them, wary. Jane is grinning, standing dry as ever in the middle of the river, and pointing ahead.

 _Look._

She sighs, raises her head – and gasps. The river bends not far from where she sits, tall trees shooting up to the sky. Something about the scenery reminds her of Jane's new project, the cabin by the lake, and her heart clenches with longing. It's beautiful. But ultimately, it's easy to ignore – what really captures her attention stands on the other side of the rill, half-hidden behind foliage up the high earthy slope.

"Is that a _house?_ "

 _Yep! That's what it looks like_ , says Jane, bouncing on his feet.

She almost shouts at him to be careful, before remembering spirits – _hallucinations_ , whatever – don't need to fear slippery surfaces.

"How the hell did I miss it earlier?" she asks instead, voice laced with wonder.

 _See? Good things_ can _happen. But you have to cross over now, cold water or not._

She rolls her eyes.

" _You think?!_ I'm not gonna stay down here when there's _a house_ just up there!"

Jane's grin widens.

 _That's my girl_ , he whispers softly as she pulls herself up, then steps tentatively in the water.

* * *

 **Next prompt: Cold**


End file.
